


Spring in Hell (and everything's blooming)

by blackkat



Category: Star Wars: Republic (Comics), Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Developing Relationship, Escape, Eventual Happy Ending, Feral Jedi Masters Making Friends, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 84,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23041408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Jon Antilles has spent most of the war keeping his head down and staying out of the fighting. But when he and Fay find evidence of a new bioweapon going to production on a Separatist planet, they move to destroy it rather than let it be deployed against the clone armies. Dooku's presence is an unexpected complication, and rather than break cover, Jon lets himself be captured and thrown in the Count's personal dungeon.He's not the only one there, however. Rex and his men have also been captured, and they're not about to trust a stranger in their midst. Jon has to pick between keeping out of the war the way he has been or rescuing the clones, blowing his cover and losing the freedom he's fought so hard for.
Relationships: CT-7567 | Rex/Jon Antilles, Depa Billaba/CC-10/994 | Grey, Jon Antilles & Fay (Star Wars), Knol Ven'nari & Nico Diath, Mace Windu/CC-8826 | Neyo
Comments: 668
Kudos: 1924
Collections: Absolute favourites, Best of Fanfiction, Favorite Rereads, Star Wars Alternate Universes





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *casually dumps this on AO3 like a hit and run*
> 
> Okay so this is _quite_ a bit angstier than my norm, but there's a tragic lack of Jon Antilles fic and I wanted to add to the tiny pool a bit. 
> 
> **First off, the warnings** : This fic is going to contain off-screen torture, though it won't ever be explicit. There are also going to be a lot of references to child abuse by a mentor, because of Dark Woman's everything, and Jon dealing with physical and emotional scars from something that left him very fucked up. I will try my best to give warnings whenever a chapter is going to be particularly heavy, but please be cautious if it's the sort of thing that will upset you. 
> 
> That said, this fic is primarily hurt/comfort about people overcoming bad situations and past scars, and getting through things while learning to trust each other. It's going to be lighthearted in lots of moments, and there will 1000% be a happy ending.
> 
> The title comes from "The Belladonna of Sadness" by Sally Wen Mao.

“Found something?” Jon asks curtly.

Drawing her hood back, Fay slides down the embankment into the hollow Jon has set up camp in, then catches her balance on the low droop of a branch. She looks grim, which is hardly promising.

“A bioweapon,” she says, and sinks down across from Jon with a heavy breath. “Or the traces of it, at least.”

Her hands tremble faintly when she reaches for the pot of water hanging over the fire, and Jon feels a flicker of deep alarm rise in response. After five hundred years as a Jedi in the Outer Rim, very little shakes Fay.

“Master Fay?” he asks warily, and she pauses, staring down at the fire. Draws a breath, careful and slow, and pours water for her tea with newly steady motions.

“There used to be a village here,” she says steadily. “Just over the ridge. I treated an outbreak of Hardan Plague there once, barely fifty years ago, and even then it was a growing place.”

The death rate of Hardan Plague is almost ninety-eight percent, and Jon raises a brow. Fay doesn’t react, though, and Jon is willing to assume that under her care, the death toll was far less. With a nod, he offers her some of the cold rations from his own pack, and asks, “How many left?”

Fay takes them, and her expression is set, the closest to cool Jon has ever seen it. When she meets his eyes across the space between them, though, there’s something in her gaze that _burns_.

“None of them, Antilles,” she says. “Everything organic for a kilometer in every direction is gone.”

Everything organic. Jon lets that settle for a long moment, then breathes out, rubbing a hand over his face. That sounds like some kind of new weapon, but none of his contacts have even hinted at such a thing, and they should have. Assi is a backwater planet at the edge of settled space, but—there are colonists here, and plenty of them. _Someone_ should have heard something.

“Everything?” he asks, not about to doubt Fay, but—it’s a jarring thing to consider.

Fay inclines her head. “There weren’t even bacteria left in the soil,” she says. “I found the impact crater, and scraps of metal, but nothing else. Technology wasn’t touched.”

A remnant of the deployment, probably. Jon frowns, rubbing at the scars on his knuckles, and—

“This is a Separatist world,” he says quietly. “We would have heard about any Republic attacks this deep into CIS space.” Not to mention the Republic would have no use for a weapon that left droids untouched.

“Yes,” Fay agrees grimly. “That’s what I thought as well.” She pulls her hair up into a knot, shoving a twig through it to hold it in place, and then picks up her tea. “Antilles, if this was the Separatists testing a new weapon on their own people…”

They have to get involved. Jon grimaces, ducking his head so that his hood falls over his face a little further, and—he doesn’t want to take any more of a part in the war than he already has. The mission to Queyta was a perfect opportunity to go underground in such a way that the Order wouldn’t come looking to any of the nomadic Masters for help, and it’s left them able to keep helping without being drafted as generals.

Jon can't even manage to teach a padawan. There’s no way he’d ever be able to lead a battalion.

Working to undermine the Separatists from a distance won't be enough here, though. With a weapon like this, mass-produced and deployed against the clone armies, the Separatists will wipe out millions, soldiers and civilians alike. Jon could funnel the information back to Coruscant through spies, but the Council would have to verify the information, dispatch Jedi, sneak them behind Separatist lines and all the way out to Assi, which could take months.

If they act, though, there’s every chance the Council will figure out that at least he and Fay are still alive, and Jon _hates_ that thought.

“We’re already lucky Kenobi didn’t see through us on Queyta,” Jon says. “This won't escape their notice.”

“If we’re blatant about it,” Fay counters, looking down at the cup cradled in her hands. “There’s a military base in the south. If we can infiltrate it, we might be able to sabotage it without leaving any clues.”

Jon would much rather take that route than try an all-out attack on the base. Fay is strong, but she’s a Healer, and while Jon could probably manage alone, he’d rather not.

The scars on his hands pull, and Jon curls them in his lap and doesn’t look down.

Like she can feel the flickers of remembered pain, Fay frowns, though she doesn’t reach out. Jon wouldn’t welcome it if she did, and Fay is always good about knowing that. “We don’t know who controls the base,” she says after a moment. “Either way, it would be best to find out before we attempt anything. There's a town outside the base we can try.”

Jon nods, tugging his hood down a little further. People don’t know his face, which makes infiltrating anywhere far simpler than it would be otherwise, but Fay doesn’t have that advantage. She’s been around long enough that there are records, images of her going back centuries, so she’ll have to be careful and discrete. Jon can pull off his robes and walk into any town he wants unnoticed.

“I’ll do it,” he says.

Fay snorts. “Antilles, this weapon destroys anything biological. I'm your only chance of surviving if it goes off.” Raising a brow, she looks him over. “Unless you want to try teleportation again.”

Jon grimaces, ducking his head so even the bottom of his face will be hidden. Getting the four of them out of the factory on Queyta almost killed him, and even after he survived that, it took a solid year to shake the nightmares that came along with using one of _her_ tricks. Just thinking about it makes Jon's stomach turn.

“Anyone who knows the Jedi will know you,” he says, even so, because Fay's the more valuable of the two of them. If something goes wrong, Jon will survive it. That’s what he’s good at.

“Then I won't look like myself,” Fay says calmly. “Jon Antilles, I _am_ coming with you.”

Jon sighs, not about to argue any further with her. “Assi has a lot of mining. If they're planning to mass-produce, this is a good place.”

“Production and testing, all on one planet,” Fay says, and her mouth is a thin, dangerous line. She takes a sip of her tea, eyes closing, and then sighs. Jon can feel some of the tension in her bleed out into the Force and filter away, scattering. “Whoever built this weapon, they need to be a priority.”

Fay might not kill, but Jon's seen her deal with enemies, and her way is almost more terrifying. She erases memories, names, all their thoughts, leaves them blank slates for the world to build on. It gives him the creeps; he’d take getting shot in the head any day over being wiped away like that.

Still, if there’s ever a good time for her to do such a thing, it’s now, and to whoever had the brilliant idea to create a bioweapon like this.

“Deal with the factories, then find them,” he says quietly. “If they're not on the planet, we can contact Ven’nari or Diath.”

“Knol is in the Mid-Rim, chasing rumors on CIS planets,” Fay allows. “She would be a good choice. Nico seems occupied with the Hutts at the moment.”

Jon smiles, just a little. Nico’s ongoing feud with the Hutts, where he frees their slaves by the hundreds and they send assassins after him who are then returned in boxes, is always entertaining. “I wouldn’t want to pull him away from that,” he says, and leans back against the tree behind him, glancing up the smooth yellow trunk to the silver leaves. Assi was a peaceful planet, once; Jon's been here before, and he enjoyed it more than most planets. The Separatists taking it over wouldn’t be nearly as objectionable if they didn’t have a tendency to destroy worlds and keep moving.

Worlds and large swathes of the people on them, apparently.

If it weren’t for that, if it weren’t for the clones fighting for the Republic, Jon would happily keep his head down and focus on the people of the Outer Rim, the ones who really need help. There are always pirates to deal with, or slavers, or spice runners, or minor gangster lords who think they can rule by fear. Jon's never wanted to be a diplomatic Jedi, negotiating treaties and spending all of his days edging around other people’s opinions. That isn't what he was trained for. No matter how much he hates Dark Woman, she could see the immediate problems in the galaxy, and she made sure Jon could see them too.

He rubs at his scars again, staring into the fire, and then closes his eyes. Too many years spent fighting slavers, and now the Republic’s using armies of commissioned clones to wage their war. How could Jon ever fight for them, knowing that?

“Stiff joints, Jon?” Fay asks softly, and long, slim fingers close around Jon's. He flinches, but Fay's fingers are too warm to be Dark Woman’s, too thin. Her grip is light, and when the pads of her fingers press against the back of his wrist, the hum of her power is silver and soft, rather than Dark Woman’s burning realignment.

There's little actual pain. Jon knows how to heal well enough, even if he doesn’t do it often; it’s an edge in a fight, and he knows better than to ignore the ability completely. But Fay's touch soothes _something_ , and a knot in Jon's throat that he hadn’t even noticed loosens.

“Thanks,” he says gruffly, opening his eyes to see the top of Fay's bent head, golden-brown hair slipping out of its twist. And then, “There's a bug in your hair.”

“Leave it be, it’s just exploring,” Fay says mildly, and lets go. She sits back, reclaiming her tea, and says, “There's another two about four kilometers from here. We should be able to find a shuttle going to the main city there.”

Jon inclines his head, accepting the change of subject gratefully. “You’ll need a disguise. Not a lot of Sephi on Assi.”

“Not a lot of Sephi in general, anymore,” Fay says wryly. She touches the blue tattoos framing her left eye, then says, “You’ll need to buy me things, if I'm going to change my face.”

Jon pauses. “A holoprojector?” he asks warily, because they're notoriously unreliable as disguises.

Fay rolls her eyes. “ _Makeup_ , Jon. I can change the contours of my face with a little work. It should be enough.”

“Oh.” Jon focuses on finding another ration bar in his pouch, rather than reacting. Dark Woman never bothered to hide herself, given her reputation and her abilities, and Jon hasn’t spent more than a few days in any one place since he was a very small child, so it’s mostly an unfamiliar skill. “Give me a list of what you need and I’ll get it.”

“Thank you.” Fay sounds faintly amused, but she finishes her tea without comment. Jon leaves her to her silence, more concerned with the thought of what they're going to find in the Sep base. Then, soft, Fay offers, “I can teach you how to cover the scars, if you want. The ones on your face, at least.”

For undercover work, it would be valuable. Still, Jon hesitates. She offered to heal them, once, but Jon had violently rejected the offer, and she’s never brought it up since. But—

Hiding is different than healing. Jon could cover them and then just…wash the makeup off.

“All right,” he says, and Fay inclines her head, perfectly willing to let silence fall between them then.

Jon doesn’t mind it. Nico always wants to talk, relieved to be back around other Jedi no matter how much he disagrees with the Council and the Order as a whole. Knol is always restless, wanting to move and find something to do. Jon likes being around her more than Nico, but—Fay is a pool of serenity in the Force, washing over all of Jon's sharp edges in a way no one else does.

She was the first Jedi he met, after Dark Woman named him a Knight. Jon had never met _any_ Jedi before that, was sure they were all like Dark Woman, but—Fay wasn’t. Fay touched and it was gentle, moved and it was quiet. There was nothing about her to fear, and everything to admire, and she’d dragged Jon down from the very edges of self-destruction, turned him into a person instead of a tangle of instincts and abilities set loose on the world.

Jon breathes in, breathes out. Lets the sound of the wind tangling through the trees above them wash over him, Fay's presence ground him. They have a mission to complete, but for now—

For now, this is fine. This is good.

The rattle of a sudden landing brings Rex back to consciousness with a jerk, and he twists hard, tries to roll to his feet—

Comes up against too-tight binders and is slammed back down to the deck of the ship’s cargo bay before he can even get an elbow underneath himself.

For a moment, he lies where he is, trying to catch his breath. There’s a familiar bit of plastoid in front of his eyes, a patch that says _For Hevy_ in 501st blue, and as it comes into focus Rex blinks the spots from his vision, takes a breath, and then rolls over as much as he can. He gets barely halfway before something around his hands and feet pulls taut, and he grimaces, shifts back to ease it. Glances up as best he’s able, taking in Echo’s still form sprawled in front of him, similarly bound and secured to the deck plating, and Fives beyond him. Jesse is on Rex's left, bleeding from a headwound, and if Rex's memories of the squad he was with are correct, that means the body behind him is—

“Awake, Captain?” Kix asks quietly, and Rex can feel the press of the medic’s shoulder against his own, silent comfort.

“Unfortunately,” Rex answers on a breath, and closes his eyes. Some kind of shock grenade dropped right in the middle of their formation and blew them all to hell. That explains the ringing in his ears, at least, and the fact that he feels like a building fell on him. “Where are we?”

Kix snorts. “They haven’t exactly been keeping me updated,” he says. “But we came out of hyperspace about half an hour ago.”

Bantha shit. Hyperspace means they're well away from the planet they were on at this point, and they’ve very definitely been captured. Those aren’t great odds. Clever on the part of their captors, though, to get them off-planet as soon as possible.

Rex hates smart enemies. Stupid ones are so much easier to kill.

With no idea how long they were in hyperspace, there’s no telling where in the galaxy they are, or how long it’s going to take for Anakin to get here and rescue them. If he even knows they’ve been kidnapped, Rex thinks grimly. They were on their way behind enemy lines, and weren’t going to be radioing in for at least a cycle, maybe two. By the time Anakin realizes they're not where they're supposed to be—

“Kriff,” he mutters, dropping his head against the plating.

Kix's sigh is resigned, full of worry. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly. “Me too, sir.”

The rumble of the ship’s engines fades, leaving perfect silence. In the wake of it, it’s easy to hear voices, steps outside the hold. Not droids, because that would be too easy, obviously. Rex grimaces, even as the door slides open and booted feet approach.

“Well now,” a woman says, and a moment later Aurra Sing crouches down right in Rex's line of sight, smirking. “Looks like someone’s got a high tolerance for sedatives. That’s convenient.”

Fear and fury crystallize, and Rex _growls_ “Sing,” he spits, and the memory of her shooting Ponds in the head is immediate, _vicious_. If he could move, he’d already have his hands around her throat.

Sing laughs at him, leaning in to cup his cheek with a cruel smirk. When Rex tries to bite her, she slams his head down into the decking so hard it makes his vision swim. “Ah-ah, none of that. I only like biting when _I'm_ the one doing it.” Rising to her feet, she steps back, then waves a several figures forward. “The Count will be up to get them in a few minutes. Make sure they’re not going to slip their ties, or he’ll take it out of our pay.”

The Count. Something cold and dark settles in the pit of Rex's stomach, and he feels Kix's hitching breath behind him. Dooku. Sing’s brought them to _Dooku_.

Suddenly, the idea of Anakin showing up to rescue them seems a lot less like a victory and a lot more like a trap springing closed.

Harsh hands grabs Rex's arm, unclipping his bindings from the decking, and a moment later he’s hauled to his feet, held between a pair of Klatooinians with iron grips. Sing smirks at him, stepping close to tap his chest armor, and says, “I’m sure you’ll behave, won't you, Captain? After all, if I even _think_ you're going to try something, I’ll have to shoot one of your men.”

“I’m going to shove a blaster up your—” Rex starts, voice a snarl, but Sing laughs. She grabs Kix as he’s pulled upright, and in an instant she has him hauled back against her chest in a chokehold, blaster digging into his skull. Kix jerks, then freezes, and Rex shouts, lunging for her on instinct.

“ _No_ ,” he snaps. “Don’t, don’t you _dare_ —”

Sing snorts, still entirely amused as she eases the blaster down to tuck it under Kix's chin. Kix swallows, but doesn’t move, and when he meets Rex's eyes there’s fear in them, but also a steadiness that makes Rex's heart lodge hard and fast in his throat. Swallowing desperately, Rex holds where he is, barely breathing.

“You're lucky I'm getting paid per head,” Sing says, and taps the blaster against Kix's cheek before she steps back, shoving him back at the other pair of thugs. “ _Attached_ head. But if you test me, Captain, I’ll happily take the cut in pay just for a chance to hurt Skywalker.”

Rex doesn’t doubt it. Sing is a killer right down to her core, and at this moment, Rex doesn’t think he’s ever hated anyone so much. Silent, throat still tight, he jerks his head in a nod, and doesn’t even try to answer.

“Good boy,” Sing says, pleased, and waves at one of her crew. “Lower the ramp.”

With Echo, Jesse, and Fives being dragged by their guards, and Kix still easily within reach of Sing, the flood of sunlight that comes when the ramp descends isn't nearly enough of a relief to ease the pace of Rex's heart. Then again, that could have something to do with the man standing there, perfectly cold and composed in his dark robes.

“Count Dooku,” Sing says, pleased, and saunters down the ramp ahead of her crew. “One high-ranking clone from the 501st, as ordered. And I brought some of his friends along, too.”

Dooku’s gaze slides over Rex, then Kix, and he smiles thinly. “You snatched the captain out from under Skywalker's nose,” he tells Sing. “Congratulations.”

Sing smirks. “I figured you could have some fun,” she says. “My payment?”

Dooku nods to one of his Magna Guards, who steps forward to offer Sing a credit chip. “As we agreed. With the addition of a bonus, for your excellent work.”

“You certainly know the way to a woman’s heart.” Sing takes it, tucking it into her belt, and then waves at her crew. “Want them delivered?”

“Best not to risk any…foolishness,” Dooku agrees coldly, and eyes Rex as he’s dragged past. “My guards will show you the way to the dungeon. Captain, welcome. I have the feeling we’ll be getting to know each other quite well during your stay.”

Kix makes a short, sharp sound, but doesn’t try to get away, and Rex refuses to show any reaction at all. He keeps his eyes fixed forward as the two Klatooinians haul him past, with no consideration for the fact that the binders are too short for him to walk in, and tries not to think about what Dooku means.

He’s Anakin's second in command. Capture and torture for Republic secrets was always a threat, but—

Somehow, Rex wasn’t expecting it to happen like _this._

The guards drag them down dark stone halls, well away from any windows, and down a long, curving flight of stairs that feels like it heads for the center of the earth. The air gets colder as they go down, mustier, and there’s a sharp, metallic smell that Rex knows all too well emanating from at least one of the rooms they pass. Still, he doesn’t say a word, just keeps his mouth shut as they come to a stop in front of a row of cells, barriers already humming between them. Everything’s visible to anyone standing outside, and that’s going to make any escape attempt even harder than it already would be.

They were karked about the same time Sing grabbed them, but—this is _really_ kriffing karked, even for the 501st.

“Strip them,” Sing orders, and the curl of her mouth is cruel. “I don’t want any surprises for our generous employer.” She eyes Rex as one of the guards pulls a vibroblade from his boot, and smiles thinly. “Nothing to say, Captain?”

“CT-7567,” Rex says, all the answer he’ll give. He has a hell of a lot he wants to say to her, but not while she’s got a blaster and four of his man are easy targets.

Sing _laughs_ , and the sound vibrates down Rex's spine like claws digging into his skin. “I'm sure the Count will get you to change your tune soon enough,” she says, and draws her own blade. Almost gently, she presses it against a connection point, leaning in, and Rex holds perfectly, desperately still as the vibroblade sheers through his armor, far too close to the skin beneath. One ounce more of pressure and it will go right through skin and bone with even greater ease.

Sing’s smile says she knows exactly what Rex is thinking, and is glad for it.

“Don’t worry, Captain,” she says, and shifts to the next point, dragging the blade through it carelessly. “I’d like to offer Count Dooku my services, but I've got another job coming up that I can't be late for. We’ll have to have some fun another time.”

Rex _hates_ , in that moment. If he could kill her right now, he’d do it happily, as long as Kix and the others wouldn’t suffer for it.

The armor drops away, one piece at a time, and finally, finally Sing steps back, sheathing her knife. Waving a languid hand, she tells the thug on Rex's left, “Blacks, too. Dooku’s got some prison uniforms that will do nicely. Get them dressed and in their cells. And then meet me back at the ship.”

Rex is so kriffing relieved to see her retreat up the stairs that he almost doesn’t mind when careless hands strip him of the last of his uniform, force him into something rougher and unmarked, because at least it’s not Ponds’s murderer with her karking hands on him.

“Two per cell,” Dooku says from the doorway, watching with a perfectly bland expression, like this is just another boring day for him. It probably is, Rex thinks bitterly. “Except for the captain. He can have his own accommodations.”

“Yes, sir,” one of the thugs says, and the barrier over the door flickers for a moment, just long enough for them to throw Rex through. He hits the ground hard, rolls up and into a crouch, but throttles the urge to lunge and instead has to watch as Kix is forced into the cell across from him, Fives dumped carelessly on the floor. Echo and Jesse get dropped in the one next to Kix, and—

It’s a good setup, Rex thinks grimly. Perfect for unsettling a clone. He’s alone, while his brothers at least have some skin contact, and he’s been deliberately singled out and separated. For clones, growing up right on top of each other and then serving in constantly close quarters, there’s nothing quite as unnerving as suddenly being cut off from all other contact.

Dooku knows what he’s doing, and Rex hates him.

From the way Dooku is watching him, he knows it. His smile is thin but satisfied, and he inclines his head to Rex in one smooth motion. “We’ll speak later, Captain,” he says, like they're meeting over afternoon tea. “There will be much to discuss.”

With a swirl of his cloak, he turns on his heel and vanishes, and the guards trail him out of the cell block, carrying scraps of white armor with them. Somewhere distant, a door slams shut, the echoes ringing through the room, and Rex finally takes a slow, careful breath and lets it.

“ _Hell_ ,” he says.

In the cell, Kix breathes out, sinking down onto one knee to check Fives. Then, deliberately, he sits down on the cold stone, and says, “General Skywalker will find us. He always does.”

General Skywalker would kill himself to save a single droid. There’s no way he won't put everything he has into finding Torrent Company. But—

There's no way this whole thing isn't doing double-duty as a trap for their general, and Rex hates that, too.

“Yeah,” Rex says grimly. “That’s what I'm afraid of, Kix.”


	2. Chapter 2

The first time, Dooku doesn’t even ask him anything.

The guards toss Rex back in his cell after an hour of work, and Rex is almost more grateful to escape Dooku’s cool, level stare than he is the torture. The only thing that Dooku said was _let’s begin_ and then, after Rex twitched and writhed and ground his jaw to keep from screaming for an endless, terrible stretch of sixty minutes, he’d said _I believe that will do for today_. And then he’d karking _left_. Like Rex was his daily dose of entertainment, and he’d gotten bored. Rex got his rank and number out once, but—

Then it didn’t matter, because Dooku didn’t care.

For a long moment, he just lies where he is, the twitch of muscles outside his control. The floor is unpleasantly cold, and the air is frigid, the thin uniforms not nearly enough to protect him, and Rex keeps his eyes tightly closed, tries to even out his racing heartbeat.

“—tain? Captain? _Captain_!”

“’m awake,” Rex manages, more to the stone than to Kix. Slowly, carefully, he eases over onto his back, staring up at the distant ceiling.

“Kriff,” another voice says, heavy on an exhale, and there’s a sound like Fives just flopped down on the bare floor. “Thanks for the heart attack, sir. We all _really_ needed that.”

“You’re welcome,” Rex says, and then groans as he pushes up onto his elbows. His diaphragm aches where one of the guards decided to soften him up with a punch, and he winces, then carefully sits all the way up. Glances across the gap between the cells, and feels a flicker of bright-hot relief at the sight of four alert faces looking back. “Everyone okay?”

“Nothing about this place is okay,” Jesse says. “Have you _seen_ the room service? I want to complain.”

“Isn't that what you're doing?” Echo asks dryly. His eyes flicker over Rex, then to the tightly sealed doorway, and he grimaces. “Lots of droids?”

“Enough to be a problem,” Rex says, which is…probably an understatement. The torture chamber Dooku apparently prefers had a view, and all he could see was the side of a mountain. If they’ve got a whole fortress full of droids to deal with _and_ an almost-sheer mountain to scale to get out of here, that puts their odds down even further than they already were, and they weren’t great to start with.

“Sir?” Kix asks, frowning. He leans forward, like he’s going to test the barrier over the cell door, and Fives quickly grabs the back of his shirt. Rex approves, though it’s still amusing to see Fives recoil and jerk his hands up in self-defense when Kix gives him an exasperated look.

Still, it’s an implied question that Rex can at least answer truthfully. “I'm fine,” he says, and curls forward, resting his elbows on his thighs to try and conserve a little more body heat. “Nothing but a couple bruises.”

Kix grimaces, hands opening and closing like he’s debating whether to try and punch his way through. “You're _shaking_ ,” he says, dismayed.

Kix is gentle, Rex thinks. Hard to find a medic who’s _more_ gentle, honestly; for all he’s a good, steady soldier, Kix has a soft spot for his brothers that could move mountains.

It’s just not going to move this one, unfortunately.

“Cold,” Rex admits with a shrug. “They must have set the thermostat too low. I’ll add my complaint to Jesse's.”

“Maybe mention the seating arrangements while you're at it,” Fives jokes, though the line of his mouth is tight. “My ass is going numb.”

“Then stand up and do some jumping jacks,” Rex says without much sympathy. They’ve at least got body heat, and Jesse and Echo are already pressed together to take advantage of it. Rex is glad they do, but—it’s cold, and this is daytime. Night’s just going to be worse.

“It’s a good idea,” Kix says, because he can always be counted on to back Rex up. At least when poking fun at his fellow troopers is concerned. The flicker of humor around his eyes is a relief to see, and he elbows Fives companionably. “It’ll warm you up, and then you can warm _me_ up.”

“I think Jesse might protest,” Fives says, and Jesse splutters. Echo hides a laugh behind one hand, but Kix just rolls his eyes.

“Stop listening to shinies’ gossip,” he says, unimpressed, and then glances at Rex again. “Captain, if I told them I was a medic—”

“They saw your armor, they probably know already.” Rex straightens a little, since it’s cold enough that if he stays hunched over, his bruised muscles are going to hate him when he tries to uncurl. “I don’t think the Count’s feeling particularly charitable.”

“He does seem to hate General Skywalker a lot,” Echo says, a little dry, and Jesse grimaces in agreement, draping an arm over his shoulders and leaning on him like a handy wall.

“General Kenobi's his favorite, though,” he points out, smirking.

Fives snorts, leaning back on his hands. “Oh yeah. It’s always like _Skywalker you son of a disease-ridden womp rat_ , and then as soon as General Kenobi shows up he’s all _Master Kenobi what a pinnacle of Jedi brilliance you are, may I kiss your toes?_ It’s creepy.”

Rex really, really hopes Dooku’s got listening devices in here. His face must be _fantastic_ right about now.

With a chuckle, he leans back against the wall, crossing his legs under him. It’s easy to focus on all the bantha shit around them right now, but—

Think about the now, Rex tells himself. Not the cold. Not the ache. Jesse and Kix and Fives and Echo, arguing and laughing even though they’re scared.

And, at the very least, Hardcase was out scouting when Sing got them. Rex can be grateful for that. Their newest shiny doesn’t need to get stuck in this mess. He’s probably relatively safe, trekking back towards the rest of the 501st with a hell of a story to tell.

Definitely better than the alternative, Rex thinks, and closes his eyes for one more moment before he opens them and says, “I don’t think you're in any position to shame anyone for their sexual preferences, Fives. I'm surprised you even know what sex is.”

Fives splutters. “Ladies love me!” he squawks, but his voice cracks, and Jesse is laughing so hard he’s turning red.

It’ll do.

“Nice hat,” Jon offers as he slips out of the forest, expression perfectly straight.

Fay puts a hand up, adjusting the gaudy, flowered thing so it sits at a rakish angle. Her smile is all mischief. “Thank you,” she says. “It’s the most awful one I could find.”

Jon snorts, not about to doubt it, and crouches down beside her. Looks ahead of them, to where the Separatist base stretches out between the arms of the mountain. High up above it, perched on a cliff, is a fortress of stone that must have been built by the earliest settlers on Assi, but beyond a few guards patrolling the perimeter of it, Jon can't see any movement. No starfighters on the landing pad beside it, certainly, and that’s enough for him.

“Stationed guards at all the gates, with patrols on the wall,” Fay says quietly. “A mix of droids and beings.”

Jon nods in recognition, frowning faintly as he watches a group of ground transports pass through the front gate. “We can get in,” he says. “There.” Below them, the woods curl close along the side of the base, and there's an edge of shadow that’s stretching over the wall. It’s dark enough to make good cover, and with the sun sinking towards the horizon, it’s only getting darker.

“Not ideal, but it will do,” Fay allows, and rises to her feet. She’s dressed like a miner, hat that covers her pointed ears aside, and if Jon hadn’t seen her put the disguise on, he likely would pass her in the street without recognizing her.

The fact that she showed him how to cover his scars is still mildly unsettling whenever he catches a glimpse of himself. But—he’s certainly more nondescript this way, and that’s not something he’d ever object to.

Moving quickly, Jon follows her down the slope, then through the gold-and-silver trees, one eye on the wall as he moves. A pair of droids march down it, and a pair of human guards pass them in the other direction, looking bored. Silently, Fay touches Jon's arm, stilling him at the base of the wall, and then raises a hand, eyes narrowing. Able to guess what she’s doing, Jon ducks sideways, watching the droids, and the second they pass out of sight he flashes her a signal. Quick, Fay closes her fingers, and the guards jerk, waver—

Keep walking, even as Fay leaps up and crosses the wall right in front of them with a limber twist.

Slightly slower, Jon follows, leaping the wall behind them, and drops down beside her, tucked back behind a small outbuilding. The main base sprawls out just ahead of them, and with a touch to Fay's elbow Jon takes the lead, crossing the space between the wall and the building at a run. Using a lightsaber will just give them away, so he pulls a vibroblade from his boot, slamming it into the crack between the door and the frame. Slices down, just as Fay follows, and slams a shoulder into the metal, forcing it open with a burst of Force-assisted strength. With a crunch, the door gives way, and Jon slides in, giving Fay room behind him to get through before he slams it again.

With a sad beep, the door locks again, and Jon huffs in satisfaction. Straightens, and ignores the light touch Fay ghosts over his shoulder, healing the bruise there before it can do more than start to sting. The lights are too bright, everything too white and clean, and he grimaces faintly.

“Which way?” he asks, and Fay tips her head, turning to look up and down the hall.

After a moment, she takes a breath, then says, “Left, and then we need to head towards the center of the base.”

Fay's sense of the Force is better than any other Jedi alive, so Jon doesn’t even pause. He heads left, and at the first intersection turns deeper into the winding corridors that lead towards the heart of the building. It makes sense, too; they need to find some sort of accounting of the factories that will be producing the weapon, then cause a commotion here so that the soldiers at the factories will be pulled back. Officers will have that information, and they’ll keep it somewhere protected, so deeper into the base.

“Knol will be sad she missed this,” Fay murmurs, almost soundless, and though her eyes are alert, there's a trace of a smile on her face.

Jon snorts, and when he hears footsteps he slips back into the shadows, pulling Fay with him. She lifts a hand again, breathing out as she concentrates, and a pair of men in uniform walk past without so much as glancing at them.

“She will,” Jon allows, ducking back into the hall. He turns in the direction the officers came from, and Fay follows closely. “She gets to hunt down the inventor, though.”

“Provided they aren't here,” Fay says, and tilts her head. When she changes direction, taking a smaller, narrower corridor eastward, Jon follows without protest.

“Someone’s here.” Jon's sure of that, at least. “There was a solar sailer by the fortress. Only someone in command would use a ship that…unnecessary.”

Fay breathes out a quiet laugh, then steps sideways though and open doorway. Jon ducks back behind a corner, just as a group of droids marches past them with blasters in hand. He gives them to a count of thirty to leave, then follows Fay into a small, neat room.

“A clerk’s office,” Fay murmurs, and bends over a stack of flimis on the desk. Jon leaves her to it, taking the console on the other side of the room. A quick glide of his fingers over the switches makes it clear which ones have been used most, and he punches in the code, then grunts in satisfaction when the holoscreen activates in a flicker of blue.

A touch on his shoulder makes him twitch, but Fay knows better than to focus on his reaction by now; she leans past him, dragging her fingers down to scroll through the file names, and pauses on one, raising a brow. “Defoliator?” she reads, and purses her lips. “That’s…”

“Terrible,” Jon finishes for her, but taps it anyway. Most everything valuable is blurred out, but there’s enough left visible to see that it’s a large project, with plenty of manpower devoted to it. The supply lists are still visible, and Jon pages through them, studying the components. Some kind of artillery weapon, he thinks, frowning. It’s large, but—

Comparatively small, for the amount of damage it can do.

“We can ask around in the towns,” Fay says, pulling one of the component lists towards her “The people here will know what factories are making these.”

“Or follow deliveries back to their sources,” Jon says, and tries to open another file. This one unfolds with reams of blacked-out information, but one name is still visible. The file’s creator, and Jon nudges Fay and points to it.

“Lok Durd,” Fay says, frowning. “I've heard that name before. He’s part of the Trade Federation. Or he was before the war.”

The Trade Federation is too tangled with the Separatists to be able to tell where one ends and the other begins. Jon scowls, committing the name to memory, and says, “Knol will be able to find him.”

“Yes, but our priority needs to be the factories.” Deftly, Fay switches off the console, then steps back. “I can find the file storage area, but it will likely be guarded.”

“I’ll distract them,” Jon says, because this is what he’s here for, and touches the lightsaber hidden up his sleeve. Pauses, before rejecting the idea of using it; even if they try not to leave survivors, there will be evidence of Jedi being here, sure to get back to the Council somehow. And—that might not be the end of the world, but it’s certainly not ideal. He and the other nomadic Masters don’t follow Council rules, don’t agree with their decisions. This whole war is a mistake, and Jon isn't going to participate in any way greater than this. There’s no point.

Being thought dead is the best option. The Temple Jedi can focus on their armies of cloned men, serving without pay or freedom; Jon will keep to a Jedi's duty of helping those in need, who no one else will save, and let the Council stew in their own mistakes.

“Be careful,” Fay says, curling her fingers over the back of his hand for one brief moment. Her grey eyes are worried as she looks up at him. “Something is brewing.”

Jon inclines his head, trusting her instincts. “The weapon is more important,” he says.

Fay doesn’t argue. “Force be with you, Master Antilles,” she murmurs, and then is gone, a shadow passing through the hall and disappearing around the corner with silent steps.

For a count of a hundred, Jon stays where he is, his sense of her fading. Fay is the strongest Jedi currently alive; he won't waste time worrying for her. Between her mind-tricks and her skill with Force manipulation, there’s very little that can touch her, even though she doesn’t carry a lightsaber. His own mission is going to riskier, but thankfully, he has a handful of thermal detonators and a good idea of where to plant them to do the most damage.

It _almost_ goes smoothly.

Jon is one charge away from done when there’s a commotion somewhere beyond him, just down the corridor. Voices rise, and he jerks around, looking that direction with every instinct flaring an alert—

“Hey!” a robotic voice calls, and Jon curses, spinning back. A pair of battle droids are advancing, basters coming up. “Hey, are you supposed to be here? And what’s that?”

“A thermal detonator?” the other says. “I don’t think you're supposed to have those outside the armory. Where’d you get that?”

“Don’t you remember? You gave it to me,” Jon says, taking a deliberate step back. the detonator is on his belt, and it will only take a second to set off the charges, but given the number of people nearby, it’s a terrible idea.

“I did?” one of the droids asks, baffled, then turns to its companion. “No, wait, _you_ gave him a thermal detonator? But they're not supposed to be outside the armory!”

“It wasn’t me, he’s talking to you,” the other one protests, and then, with a start, it swivels back towards Jon. “Hey, wait, we can't get into the armory! You’re lying!”

“Whoops,” Jon says, and dives sideways. As he picks up a run down the hall, he slaps the last charge to the wall outside a locked door, then ducks beneath a blaster bolt, slams sideways through a doorway, and hits the detonator.

The explosion hits a fraction of a second later, hard enough to rattle his teeth and throw him off his feet as the floor and walls buckle. Instantly, alarms start wailing, and the lights go down, and Jon hauls himself to his feet, grimly satisfied. There should be plenty of power in the other half of the base for Fay to get into the systems, but this will definitely get people’s attention.

And then, half an instant too late, Jon feels the Darkness.

In a blur, he twists, but it’s still too slow. The Force grabs him like a vast hand, hurls him back, and he shouts in pain as he goes crashing over a desk and into a wall. The power vanishes a moment later, and Jon hits the ground, rolls upright and flings his vibroblade in one smooth motion

A raised hand stops it cold, hovering in the air halfway between Jon and the tall man in the doorway. Jon's seen plenty of holos of him, knows the face of the Confederacy of Independent Systems at a glance, and the sight of Count Dooku standing there sends something cold sliding through his veins.

 _Sith_ , he thinks, vicious. Considers, for just a moment, reaching for his lightsaber, but—

No. Fay is still working, and if Dooku sees one Jedi, he’s going to expect a second at the very least. One Force-blind saboteur he’ll probably write off, but that means Jon has to keep him from thinking Jon is anything but a basic Human.

“Count,” he says, and can't quite hide the dark edge to his voice. “I must have missed you arriving. What a shame. If you’ve got another detonator I can borrow, I’d be happy to try again.”

Dooku’s eyes narrow. “Identify yourself,” he says, brushing his cloak back. The curved black hilt of his lightsaber is a threat all on its own. “I have little patience for rodents.”

“Because you hate competition?” Jon asks, and judges distances, trajectories. Using the Force would help, but—the Force isn't all he’s trained in.

“The Republic would do well to send better spies, if you were their choice to assassinate me.” Dooku raises a hand, and—

Snatching up a fallen statuette from the desk, Jon hurls it at Dooku’s head, then lunges. Dooku jerks back, letting the metal miss him, but as his concentration wavers, the vibroblade drops. Jon slides beneath it, snatching it out of the air, and slams feet-first into Dooku's shins. Twists to his feet, right inside Dooku's guard, and brings the knife up hard, one long slash that Dooku leaps just before it opens his stomach. Jon rolls as he lands, rises out of range, and ducks the hum of an igniting lightsaber as it passes inches over his head.

“And here I thought you’d been a good Jedi,” he says, smirking, and falls back, blade raised and braced as Dooku eyes him suspiciously.

“Your arrogance is demeaning, boy,” Dooku says darkly, and raises a hand. Without hesitation, Jon throws himself backwards, out the doorway and right into a tangle of battle droids. There’s an instant clamor as they try to fall back, but Jon doesn’t pause. He cuts the head off one, spins, and throws it at Dooku, who bats it aside in irritation as he advances. By the time he does, though, Jon has his hands on the droid’s blaster, and he kicks a second one into the wall, raises the blaster, and fires three shots right at Dooku's head.

Three quick sweeps of Dooku's red lightsaber deflect them, and the man keeps moving, scowl deepening.

“You have a strange mix of skill and sloppiness I had only ever thought to see in Skywalker,” he says coolly. “Surrender. There’s nowhere for you to go here. I have the advantage.”

Jon snorts, drops the blaster, and lunges. Dooku, expecting another shot, or for Jon to run, is caught off guard, and he steps back sharply. It’s just enough of an opening for Jon to spin in close, slashing out, and this time Dooku only just manages to avoid him. He falls back, a long slash opened across his tunic, and thrusts. Twisting around the lightsaber’s blade, Jon kicks for Dooku's knee—

And finds himself picked up and flung with one had Force-push, crashing through a window and out into the open yard. He hits the ground with bruising force, rolls, comes right to his feet as Dooku leaps out after him. This time, the sweep of the red blade is harder to dodge, faster, unhesitating, and Jon curses, scrambling into a retreat as Dooku leaves him no opening. The wall is at his back, with guards approaching, and the base is burning but not enough of it to halt reinforcements. If he gets cornered, there’s going to be no way out except through.

Dooku twists his blade as he lunges, and in the same moment Jon's back hits the wall. He has half a second to realize there’s nowhere to go, that the blade is coming for his throat, and he grabs for the lightsaber strapped to his wrist—

Finds nothing but an empty holster, because his lightsaber is gone.

There's no time to curse his luck. Jon drops, the lightsaber just missing him, then lunges to tackle Dooku around the waist. Dooku is faster, though; he spins out of the way, and in the same moment a hard flare of power grabs Jon, sends him hurtling across the yard to crash right through the wall of an outbuilding, so hard his vision goes black for a moment.

It’s a moment too long. By the time Jon shakes himself back to consciousness and staggers to his feet, head ringing, vision swimming, Dooku is right in front of him.

“Curious,” Dooku says, and an inhumanly tight grip closes around Jon's throat. “Skilled but reckless. An assassin who relies on explosives. Not an assassin at all, are you?”

Jon reaches for the Force, but it makes the pounding in his head redouble, and he gags. Chokes, grabbing for the invisible hands around his throat, and he _knows_ how to get out of this, Dark Woman taught him in excruciating detail, but he can't _think_ —

“I suppose we’ll find out,” Dooku says, smiling thinly, and twists his hand. Jon slams spine-first into the back wall of the building, head bouncing off the duracrete, and knows nothing else.

The first time, Dooku's guards came for him at dawn. It has to be at least nightfall by now, so Rex is startled to hear the grinding whirr of the door opening, the lock disengaging. Instantly, Kix is on his feet, braced like he’s going to yell, and Fives is just a beat behind him, Jesse and Echo following more deliberately. Rex is slower, more careful, but he’s straight and standing by the time the whirl of a dark cloak announces the arrival of not just the guards, but Dooku himself.

And behind Dooku, limp between a pair of guards, is a stranger.

Rex frowns, feeling his spine pull straight as one of the Magna Guards heads for the empty cell beside him. Before it can reach the door, though, Dooku says sharply, “Not in there. Open the captain’s cell. Let’s see how our assassin feels about the brave soldiers of the Grand Army of the Republic.”

Assassin? Rex looks from Dooku to the prisoner, one quick glance before he takes two deliberate steps back, giving the guards room. If an assassin went after Dooku, him still being alive is surprising. But—

The timing’s really kriffing suspicious.

There's every chance this is a trick. A ploy to get a loyal spy in with a group of prisoners to figure out what they're planning, or to sabotage any escape attempts. Those seem like exactly the kind of mind games Dooku would play, and Rex doesn’t trust this at _all_.

Still. Rex has to give the guy points for committing to the act, because he looks kind of like he had a building fall on him, and maybe punch him a few times on the way down, too.

When the guards toss the man in, though, he lands bonelessly, with the meat-sack thud of the truly unconscious, and there’s a smear of blood under his head that doesn’t look good. Rex finds himself on one knee before he can help it, rolling the man over just so he won't be lying in such an awkward tangle, and from the doorway Dooku makes a low sound of amusement.

“I had thought to leave you in solitary, Captain,” he says. “Be good, or I’ll return to that plan.”

Rex grits his teeth, and tells himself very firmly that mouthing off to Count Dooku while he and his men are stuck in tiny little cells is a hell of a bad idea.

“Got any bacta?” he asks instead, because the man’s head is still bleeding.

Dooku snorts, like that’s meant to be a joke, and turns on his heel. The Magna Guards follow him back out of the holding cells, and the door slams shut with a groan.

“Kark it,” Jesse mutters, hands curled into fists as he glares at the spot where Dooku vanished. “That festering two-toed swamp-sucker, I hope someone puts a boot in his _shebs_ —”

“Kix?” Rex asks, because as satisfying as that is to imagine, the guy’s still bleeding.

“Human?” Kix asks, coming as close to the edge of his cell as he can.

“Probably.” Rex checks an eye, then the other. “Pupils are all wonked, but they look Human.”

“A concussion,” Kix says, unhappy. “Take a piece of his uniform and try to stop the bleeding if you can. If he’s bleeding in his brain, there’s nothing I can do about it without my kit. Anything else?”

“Looks like he got thrown through a wall or two.” Rex eyes the man, wondering how much of the story to take as true. There's definitely a lot of blood for this to be a plot, but—something still doesn’t feel right. “Lots of old scars.”

He reaches out, intending to touch one that curves down across the man’s throat, but before his fingers can even make contact, the guy gives a full-body twitch and jerks up. One hand flashes up instantly, grabbing Rex by the wrist, and the man rolls, rises—

Staggers, losing his balance all at once as his face goes about three shades paler.

Pure instinct has Rex lunging to catch him before he can topple, and he hauls him upright, gets an arm around his waist and holds him on his feet. “Easy, easy,” he says, when the man gives another jerk like he’s going to try and wrench out of Rex's hold. “You got your skull cracked open. Remember anything about that?”

The man blinks, once, twice, then a third time. Pauses, shaking himself, and then grimaces.

“Yeah,” he rasps, and coughs. “Where…”

He trails off, but Rex snorts. “Dooku's dungeon,” he says dryly. “Top of the line, as far as I can tell. Then again, I try not to spend a lot of time in dungeons.”

The man makes a vague noise, pressing a hand to his head. Rex watches his expression twist, his eyes narrow, and he raises a hand—

His eyes roll back in his head, and Rex curses as he staggers, left supporting the bastard’s whole weight as he goes limp.

“Well, _that’s_ definitely how you make a first impression,” he mutters, and then raises his voice. “Kix?”

Kix's sigh is sheer exasperation. “I can't do anything from over here, Captain. Just try to stop the bleeding, like I told you.”

Well. At least it’s something to break the boredom, Rex thinks, and reaches for the man’s shirt. He’s definitely not about to sacrifice his own to the cause.


	3. Chapter 3

Fay finds the lightsaber in the rubble.

It’s unmistakable, after all this time. Edged with durasteel, long enough for a two-handed grip, with the center of the hilt a color-specked, petrified wood that’s heavy enough to be a weapon in its own right. Fay's never asked why Jon's lightsaber echoes his Master’s organic design while still managing to be opposite it, has never wanted to know whether it was his choice or Dark Woman’s that led to the odd mix of metal and organic, but—she would know it anywhere, and without hesitation.

The hilt is still cool. If it was activated, she can't tell, but a sense tells her it wasn’t. this destruction has to be the side effect of a fight with a Force user, and Jon would have been incredibly careful not to give himself away.

She can't tell if he dropped his lightsaber rather than let someone find it on him, or if it was simply an accident. Isn't sure she wants to know that, either.

Carefully, delicately, Fay picks it up, brushing the dirt away, and tucks it into her belt along with the datachips holding the bioweapon’s blueprints. All the copies she could find are in her possession now, thanks to Jon's distraction, and all they need to do is take out the factories that are producing the parts.

Jon will be along shortly, she has no doubt. He’s one of the most powerful Masters in the Jedi Order, and he’s quick and ruthless and clever besides. As soon as he sees a chance, he’ll escape, and come to join her.

Until then, Fay will just have to start without him.

Most of the base is still occupied putting fires out and digging through the rubble, so there’s no one watching as Fay vaults the wall in the darkness, landing lightly in the grass on the other side. She straightens, glancing up at the fortress above to check if the solar sailer is still present—

The muzzle of a blaster touches the back of her neck, and she goes still.

“Hands where I can see them,” a low voice says. “Slowly now.”

Carefully, Fay lifts her hands, reaching for the mind behind her. A Human, a man, with a quicksilver, almost panicked edge to his thoughts. He’s scared, and not of her; of the base, of the planet, of the image of a woman with chalk-white skin and a high tail of red hair. Of loss, and Fay takes a step forward, then says, “I’m turning around.”

“What?” The man sounds startled, caught off guard. “Wait, I didn’t tell you to—”

The blaster wrenches itself upwards and back, and the man yelps. In the same moment, Fay spins, drops low, and sweeps his feet out from underneath him. Follows him down, pinning him in the grass, and claps a hand over his mouth before he can make another sound.

On the other side of the wall, voices rise. Droids, by the sound of it, and then an organic voice, calling orders. More footsteps pass, then more, and Fay lifts her head, following the progress of minds as they retreat. No more are approaching, and she can't hear any droids, either, which means they're probably safe enough for now.

With a faint smile, she lifts her hand from the man’s mouth and slides off of him, kneeling in the grass. “All right, we’re safe now,” she says. “Sorry, you were saying?”

For a long moment, the man just blinks at her, looking like he has no idea what’s going on.

Trying to hide her amusement, Fay quirks a finger, letting his blaster float back down out of the branches. It hovers over him until he gets the hint and reaches up to grab it, but he doesn’t try to aim it, just gives her a bewildered look and asks, “You’re a _Jedi_?”

Fay hums, reaching out. Lets her breathing slow as she concentrates, and touches his mind, ready to take the memory of her presence—

“Please,” the man says, close to desperate, but with an edge of hope that _burns_. “My squad—a bounty hunter grabbed them off the battlefield and dragged them here, and I need to rescue them. Please, can you help?”

Startled, Fay pauses. “Squad?” she repeats, and looks him over more carefully. He’s in nothing but a black undersuit, but there's an insignia on the chest that’s hard to make out in the darkness, and between that and the blaster—

“You’re a clone trooper,” she says, and frowns. “What is the GAR doing on a planet in Separatist space?”

“If I knew, I’d have called for backup already,” the trooper says frankly. He sits up, slinging his blaster’s strap over his shoulder, and asks, “What’s a Jedi doing on a Sep planet, then? Hadn’t thought there were a lot of you outside active war zones.”

The words ache, high up behind Fay's breastbone. Once, the only place for a Jedi in a war zone would be negotiating a ceasefire, and the change sits at odds with everything Fay has ever thought Jedi should be. She’s never agreed with the Council on their closeness with the Senate, always turned her eyes more towards the people than the politics, but—

Surely, surely, this is too much.

“Not anymore,” she agrees, and glances up towards the fortress on the mountain again. Weighs her options for a long moment, given Jon's likely capture and how certain he was that there was someone important here. If they have him under guard, it may take him a few days to escape, and in the meantime, Fay needs to deal with the weapons factories.

She’s more than capable of managing on her own, but someone who’s handy with a blaster could be useful. And afterwards, if he won't keep her secret, she’ll take his memories of their meeting.

“A deal,” she says. “You assist me in my mission, and I’ll help you. But you can't tell anyone you saw me here. On your word as a man.”

The clone gives her an odd look, caught between startled and puzzled, but nods quickly. “Sure, I can do that. If you're on a secret mission, General—”

“No,” Fay says, cool and sharp like dagger-sharp ice. “I am no general, trooper, and I refuse to be one. I am Master Fay.”

Eyes a little wide, the trooper looks at her, then nods. “Course, Master Fay,” he says, and climbs to his feet. Hesitates, then offers her a hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Fay breathes. In, then out, slow and steady. Then, light, she sets her hand in his larger one and lets him draw her to her feet. “I know,” she says, and straightens her hat. “May I ask your name, trooper?”

He grins at that, and in the light of the planet’s four small moons, Fay can make out the stripe of blue that cuts across his right eye, then curls back across his shaved skull. “Of course, sir—uh, Master Fay. I'm Hardcase. CT—”

“Just your name is fine,” Fay says, amused. “This isn't an enemy interrogation.” A raised voice makes her glance back towards the base, and she says, “We should put distance between ourselves and this place.”

Hardcase’s humor vanishes, and he shakes his head, taking a step back. “I can’t, Master Fay,” he says quickly. “My captain and the rest of the squad are probably in there, and I can't _leave_ them—”

“They're not,” Fay says, gentle. “You're the only GAR soldier within my range. Do you have any idea where else they could be?”

Hardcase pauses, expression twisting with distress. “I don’t know,” he says. “I stowed away when Sing grabbed them—”

“Sing,” Fay says, cutting him off, and between the name and his mention of bounty hunters— “ _Aurra_ Sing?”

“Yeah,” Hardcase says grimly. “You know her?”

If Sing is here, Jon needs to know. He made Knighthood before Dark Woman took Sing on as her padawan, but—given that they had the same Master, however briefly Sing trained, he’s always felt responsible for Sing’s actions. If he finds out, there’s every chance he’ll go after her immediately, and Fay doesn’t want him to. Jon knew Sing as a child. If he kills her—

“I’m familiar,” Fay says, and tips her head to him, then heads up the hill at a run. From behind her, there’s a curse, but Hardcase follows quickly, less noisy than Fay would have expected in the undergrowth. He keeps pace well enough, even if he’ll never be a Jedi, and Fay tries not to lose him in the thick press of the trees as she heads for the small campsite she and Jon established.

“Kriff, you have someplace to get to?” Hardcase huffs, staggering into the little hollow as Fay drops to her knees beside the small satchel that holds their supplies. He skirts the firepit carefully, then asks, “You got an escort, Gen—Master Fay?”

“A partner,” Fay says, and pulls out the small makeup kit Jon found for her. With the list of factories, she’ll have no need to go back into the town, and the cosmetics make her skin itch. Carefully, she wipes them off, then pulls the hat off and undoes the knot of her hair. “How did you escape Sing, Hardcase?”

“Uh.” Hardcase sounds slightly sheepish when he says, “They unloaded the prisoners, but I couldn’t get out then, so I ducked out as soon as they stopped to resupply. It was at the base, so I thought…”

Thought that his squad was there, and acted accordingly. Fay smiles faintly, then straightens, picks up her robes, and says, “A logical conclusion. Turn around, please.”

Hardcase’s eyes flicker from her to the cloth in her hands, then go wide. He jerks around, and Fay hides a smile, changing quickly. She’s spent five hundred years in Jedi robes; at this point, not wearing them feels like losing a layer of armor. Jon may go undercover, but—Fay has never needed to. Even now, dead in the eyes of the Council, she’s still a Healer. Those she helps won't give her up, and anyone else who recognizes her for what she is can be dealt with.

“All right,” she says, and Hardcase glances back, like he’s checking that she really is dressed, then quickly turns the rest of the way around.

“Oh,” he says, startled. “Uh. You're. Actually a Jedi, Master Fay.” Then, in a rush, he seems to realize what he said, and throws his hands up. “I didn’t mean that like it sounded, sir— _Master_! Swear I didn’t, sorry—”

Fay laughs, not able to help herself. “A disguise only works if no one can tell who I am,” she points out. Neatly folding the miner’s outfit, she tucks it and her satchel up into the fork of a tall tree, then tucks the datachips into her pockets. For a moment, she hesitates over Jon's lightsaber, frowning at it, and—

“That’s pretty,” Hardcase says, leaning over her shoulder. “I don’t think I've ever seen one made out of wood before. And that’s that stone-wood, right? That a Sephi thing?”

“No,” Fay says, amused, “because it isn't mine. I don’t carry a lightsaber.”

Hardcase stares at her like she just said she walked everywhere on her hands with her feet in the air. “But you're a _Jedi_!” he protests, on the edge of alarm.

“I'm a Healer,” Fay counters, and clips the lightsaber to her belt, just in case she finds Jon before he turns up back here. “I’ve never taken a life, Hardcase, and I don’t plan to. I have no need for a weapon that exists to kill.”

“Isn't that _dangerous_?” Hardcase asks, but when Fay turns out of the hollow, he follows closely. The fact that he suddenly has his hand far closer to his blaster than a moment ago is sweet; Fay can feel the worry behind the gesture, the thoughts that only run towards her safety and how Hardcase is going to protect her when they invariably end up in a fight. If Fay were four hundred years younger, she might be insulted, but as it is, she can accept the gesture as it’s intended.

“A Jedi is more than their lightsaber,” she says firmly, and it’s a belief she’s held over ages, through upheavals and peace.

Hardcase doesn’t look convinced, however. “I'm pretty sure I've heard General Kenobi tell General Skywalker that his lightsaber is his life,” he says. “More than once.”

Fay shakes her head, unsurprised, and rather resigned to it at this point. “That is the view of a child, in my eyes. A Jedi's life is their connection to the Force. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less. A lesson many Jedi could stand to be reminded of.”

Hardcase just shrugs, quickening his pace a little to fall in with her. “If you say so, Master Fay. But—how are we going to find the squad?”

Fay frowns faintly, stretching her senses out. “You landed close by here, the first time?” she asks.

“Yeah. Can't have been more than a minute before we stopped to refuel,” Hardcase confirms. “They’re not in that fortress?”

Fay glances back towards it, narrowing her eyes, but—she can feel beings inside, quiet and at ease, nothing distinct. Prisoners would likely be in distress, or at the very least alarmed, and she can't feel anything of the sort. “I don’t believe so,” she says after a moment. “Perhaps they're being held in one of the factories nearby. I was intending to search them anyway.”

“I can help with that,” Hardcase says, sounding relieved. “You sure you don’t want to wait for your partner, Master Fay?”

“He’ll find his own way to us, I have no doubt,” Fay says, perfectly calm, and draws her hood up. “Your armor?”

Hardcase pulls a face. “Back on Sing’s ship. Hard to cram yourself into a smuggler’s hold when you're covered in five centimeters of plastoid on all sides. I didn’t have a chance to grab it, either.”

Fay will have to be sure to redirect any blaster fire that gets near him, then. She inclines her head, accepting that, and says, “The Separatists are building weapons on this world. Bioweapons, meant to destroy all organic life within the blast zone. I already stole the blueprints. If I can sabotage the factories, that will at least give me time to get word back to the Council about what’s being done here.” She has plenty of contacts, after all, and more than enough avenues to channel information to Coruscant. The time required is the only factor, and with the factories destroyed, that won't matter.

“Karking _hell_ ,” Hardcase breathes. “That’s a big mission.”

The worry from him is sharp, acrid against Fay's thoughts. Reaching out, she lays a reassuring hand on his arm, and says softly, “Between the two of us, Hardcase, I'm sure we can manage.”

Hardcase shoots her a startled look, then rubs a hand over his head. “If you say so, Master Fay,” he says, but Fay can feel a little of the anxiety ease. “Just seems like a big job for two people, you know? Even if we had some thermal detonators, and I left mine in my other armor.”

Fay smothers a chuckle. “I'm sure we’ll manage,” she says, and leads him down the hill towards the road.

Jon wakes cold, in pain, with a figure looming over him, and for one wrenching, gut-churning moment, he’s absolutely sure that everything since the end of his training has been a dream.

Instinct has him moving, wrenching out from beneath a hand that’s about to land on his shoulder and rolling up, and the fact that his head spins is hardly worth noticing as he makes it to one knee. The hand comes again, and he grabs it, shoves it down, reaches out for the Force—

And recoils with a cry as something _aches_ inside his skull. It feels like a broken bone, like electricity lancing through his brain, and for a moment Jon's vision goes dark around the edges as he wavers.

“Oh, kriff, not again,” a voice says above him, and Jon's too distracted to do more than jerk this time when hands touch him, grip. They’re holding him up, though, not tossing him sideways, and Jon wants to get away but he has more important things to worry about right now.

Like the fact that he can't feel the Force, for one.

“Hey,” a gruff voice says above his head, and Jon twitches but doesn’t try to duck away. “You still awake, or are you going to collapse into my arms again?”

When Jon closes his hands into fists, the scars there pull. He can feel Fay's makeup still on his skin, covering the scars on his face. Not a dream, he thinks, and breathes in, breathes out. Lets the flare of fear, acknowledged and cataloged and dismissed, bleed away into the Force, and opens his eyes.

There's a blond man leaning over him, frowning. He looks familiar, but not quite, in a way that makes Jon's head hurt more just thinking about it. The lights are too bright, and they make Jon's vision swim, but he forces himself to keep them open as he pulls back.

They're in a cell. Glowing barriers separate them from the next one over, and across from them are two more cells, both occupied. There are faces watching them, and for half a second Jon thinks he’s seeing double, but—

He’s not. They all have the same face because they're clones. Clone _troopers_ , serving the Republic and the Jedi directly, and hell but that’s going to make it harder to get out of here.

Well. Even harder. Not being able to touch the Force is a problem all its own.

“No chance I broke Dooku's nose when I fainted at him?” he rasps, and the words make his head ring. Or maybe that’s the blond clone’s laugh, short and startled.

“Not that I saw,” he says, and eases Jon back, helping him settle on the cold stone floor. Jon takes the assistance, because protesting seems too hard right now. “Was there a chance of that?”

“It was very aggressive fainting,” Jon says, and gingerly reaches up to feel his skull. There's a strip of cloth holding a pad against his hair, and he feels both out, but given the sharp ache underneath he leaves them where they are. No bacta. Not surprising, since they're definitely in a dungeon. Being held in some kind of energy field, probably, because Jon has been concussed plenty of times before, and it’s never cut off his connection to the Force.

“It must have been, to get you tossed in here.” The clone studies him for a moment, and Jon doesn’t need a Jedi's empathy to be able to see the wariness in his eyes, the tightness around his mouth. Suspicion, Jon thinks, but—that’s fine. He’d be feeling the same thing, in their position. “Sorry about the wrap job. My medic’s in the cell across from us.”

One of the clones, with lightning bolts shaved into his short hair and a tattoo of words Jon can't make out on the side of his head, raises a hand. “Your skull got pretty rattled,” he says, and there’s a thread of concern in his voice. “You're seeing fine? No dizziness, no shortness of breath?”

“I’ll be fine,” Jon says. “It’s just a concussion.”

The medic rolls his eyes, just a little. “I don’t think Count Dooku's big on medical care,” he says, “but if something starts changing let me know. Back okay? Spine intact?”

Jon winces faintly. “Bruised,” he allows, because he doesn’t usually get tossed around quite that much. Then again, he isn't usually facing a Sith.

Losing his lightsaber in the scuffle was probably a good thing. If there’s one person Jon doesn’t want having any idea of his continued existence, it’s Dooku. His Master, too.

The blond clone snorts. “With the amount of duracrete dust in your hair, I'm not surprised. How many walls did you hit?”

Jon can't quite remember. “More than I would have liked,” he mutters, and then glances at the man a little more closely. Between the look on his face and his words— _my medic_ —Jon assumes he’s the commander of the squad. “I'm Jon,” he says, because it’s a common enough name. Even saying _Jon Antilles_ outright wouldn’t get him more than a sideways look, because it’s about the most bland, fake-sounding name a Human can have and that was likely Dark Woman’s reason for picking it, but—better not to test things with Dooku.

The clone raises a brow at him, then says, “CT-7567, of the Grand Army of the Republic.”

In the cell across from them, the clone with the goatee and the five tattoo blinks, expression twisting, but the medic elbows him before he can say anything.

Jon just grunts, not in any mood to play along with the suspicion, even if he understands the cause of it. His head hurts, and his lightsaber is probably lying under a bunch of rubble in a Separatist military base right now. If he could punch Dooku in the face right now, he’d definitely try it.

Careful of his head, he stretches out on his back, then closes his eyes. Fay is close enough that if he can get past the barrier, if he can find even a trace of the Force that he can still access, she’ll be able to hear him, and she needs to know just who is on the planet. Maybe she can even stage a distraction for Dooku, to give Jon a chance to break out. Fay's good at things like that. A real meditation pose will just raise eyebrows, though, and Jon would much rather Dooku not have any idea he’s a Jedi, or even that he can touch the Force, so this is safer.

“Should you really be sleeping with a concussion?” the blond asks, sounding like he doesn’t know whether to be amused or wary.

Jon snorts. “I'm not sleeping. The lights hurt,” he says.

In the same moment, the medic says, “He shouldn’t sleep for a while, to make sure there aren’t any symptoms of his brain swelling. Captain—”

“He’s not,” the captain says, and then, “You going to throw yourself around again if I try to touch you?”

Probably. Jon doesn’t like being touched unexpectedly. “Tell me if you are,” is all he says, though, and takes a breath. Meditation is simple to sink into, a steady trance-like state that lets him slip away from the pain, expands his senses.

His head hurts, but he pushes past it. Reaches for the Force, ballast and anchor, grounding and comforting—

It slips through his fingers, like grabbing for something that’s just outside his reach.

Gritting his teeth, Jon re-centers himself, then tries again. If he was locked in alone, it would be one thing, but—

Jon's not anything close to a Jedi general. But his whole life is devoted to saving those the Council would overlook, and if he can get these men out, he’s sure as hell going to try.

It’s the sound of too many footsteps on stone that pulls Jon out of his meditation. Instantly, he rolls up into a crouch, startling the clone captain where he’s sitting against the wall, and says sharply, “Dooku.”

The blond’s eyes narrow, and across from them, the four other members of his squad come to their feet. The captain is slower, steadier; he rises, eyes flickering between Jon and the door, and opens his mouth—

With a grinding, groaning creak, the door opens, and four Magna Guards with electrostaffs march through. Between them, dark cloak sweeping the stone, is Dooku, and he eyes the clones, then Jon.

“Assassin,” he says curtly.

“Saboteur,” Jon corrects. “Not everything is about you, Count.”

In the other cell, a clone with the Galactic Republic’s emblem tattooed across his face snorts. His companion closes his eyes with a grimace, but doesn’t protest, and in the next cell the clone with the goatee snickers. “ _Ori'buyce, kih'kovid_ ,” he says in Mando’a, and Dooku's gaze falls on him for a long moment, cold and flat, before he turns back to the blond.

“Captain,” he says curtly. “Come. Or should I take one of your men instead, this time?”

Dark resignation flickers over the blond’s face for just a moment. “No,” he says. “I’ll go.”

“Captain!” the clone with the goatee protests, stepping forward, but the medic catches him by the arm before he can do more than that.

“Sit down and shut up, Fives,” the captain says curtly, but his eyes are on Dooku. Watching for a reaction, Jon thinks, and eyes the distance to the door. If he moves fast enough—

Dooku catches his gaze, frowning. “Be aware, spy,” he says. “If you attempt to break out, I will kill one clone for each try. If your sympathies do not lie with the clone armies, you are welcome to make the attempt, but it could make your stay with the captain…fractious.”

The blond is tense, so tense that he looks like he’s about to snap. Jon scowls at Dooku, but he slowly, carefully straightens from his crouch, and says, “Magna Guards are boring. Bring me something more interesting to destroy next time and I’ll think about it.”

A dark look crosses the captain’s face as he steps out, but he doesn’t say anything, and the Magna Guards grab him, pulling him around to lock his hands behind him with binders. Dooku doesn’t seem impressed, either; he simply turns on his heel, letting the guards follow him back out of the cells and up the stairs. They march the clone captain along with them, and he keeps his spine straight, his eyes fixed ahead right up until the door seals shut behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

“We have to do _something_ ,” Fives says, loud in the hush.

He looks, Jon thinks, like he’s on the edge of vibrating out of his own skin. Like he’s one wrong word away from taking a swing at the barrier and a moment away from yelling at anyone who moves.

“What?” the clone with the face tattoo says, scoffing as he slumps back against the wall. The slant of his mouth is mulish, and his shoulders are tight. “Charge out there and get Captain Rex back? Because I'm all for that, but there are some logistical problems we should probably consider. Like that _we’re locked in a dungeon_ part.”

“Jesse,” the clone next to him says quietly. When Jesse huffs and looks away, he reaches for him, and says, “Captain Rex knows the protocols. He’s technically got the same authority as a commander, and he won't say anything to put the 501st in danger—”

“I _know_ that!” Jesse protests, knocking his hand away and stepping aside. He doesn’t look at anyone else, just keeps his eyes fixed on the doorway. “But that means that _mir’osik_ is probably going to torture him to _death_ while we just sit here on our asses.”

“General Skywalker will find us,” the medic says, all quiet, determined faith, and sinks down to sit against the wall again. He pulls Fives down with him, and says, “Fives, come on, it’s cold.”

That seems to be what’s needed to get Fives moving, because he flops down with a grimace, pressing close to the medic until they can share body heat. The medic curls an arm over his shoulders, and Fives sighs, frustrated, and scrubs his hands over his face.

“Hardcase is out there still,” he says. “On the battlefield. He’s going to have to get all the way back to the main company without getting his hyperactive head shot off. Kriff.”

“At least the bounty hunters didn’t get him,” the clone in the other cell says, sitting down and wrapping his arms around his knees. “He’ll get word back to General Skywalker, and then the general will come for us.”

It’s a lot of faith to be putting in one Jedi, Jon thinks, though he keeps his mouth shut. The very idea of Jedi generals sits wrong, and he has to look away, trying not to react. He doesn’t have Fay's ideas about Jedi solely being peacekeepers, negotiators—he’s always been the violent type, more than willing to kill those harming others if that’s what it takes to stop them. But commanding armies, listening to battle plans instead of the will of the Force? That’s against everything a Jedi should be. He’d known, right from when Dark Woman took him as a padawan, that the Jedi in their Temples were losing sight of who they really served, but—

This is something else entirely.

“Are you all right?” the medic asks, and it takes Jon a moment to realize that he’s the one being addressed. When he looks over, though, there are three sets of eyes on him, and it takes effort not to grimace. He doesn’t have the usual concealment of his hood to hide behind, after all.

“Yes,” he says shortly, and the medic frowns.

“No changes in vision?” he asks. “No dizziness?”

He sounds a lot like Fay, except Fay has learned by now that the best way to wrangle Jon when he’s hurt is just to grab him and heal him whenever she sees an opening. A little amused, Jon shakes his head, and offers, “Sore. That’s all.”

“Probably _very_ sore,” the medic says, unhappy. His hands curl, like he’s resisting the urge to reach for bacta.

Fives rolls his eyes. “Leave him alone, Kix, the guy said he’s fine—ow!”

Kix releases Fives's ear with a snort. “If this squad has taught me anything, it’s that I can never believe anyone ever when they use the word _fine_ ,” he says.

With a scowl, Fives rubs the offending appendage, looking insulted. “Yeah, well, you don’t have to take it out on _me_. I don’t do that.”

The other clone muffles a snicker. “Oh yeah? What about Yavin III? The gushing headwound that you kept calling a scratch? It’s the closest I've ever seen to Kix sedating someone by force.”

“You're a traitor, Echo,” Fives mutters, giving him a dirty look. Then, pointedly, he looks over at Jon, and asks, “So what exactly were you sabotaging, to piss Dooku off so thoroughly?”

Jon hesitates, but—they're part of the GAR, and as far as ways of getting word back to the Jedi about what’s happening on Assi goes, this is a pretty solid one. Jon will just have to be sure to disappear in the aftermath of their escape, and put some distance between himself and this section of space.

“The military base at the foot of the mountain,” he says. “To get rid of some secret blueprints for a Separatist weapon.”

There's a startled pause, and Jesse turns around, frowning. Fives and Echo exchange looks, a silent kind of communication that Jon can't read, and then Fives says, “What kind of weapon?”

“Biological,” Jon says quietly. “Capable of destroying everything organic within its range. They used it to wipe out a whole village over the next ridge. Nothing left.”

There's a long moment of silence, and then Jesse says, “The defoliator.”

Surprised, Jon looks at him. “You know it?”

“Captain Rex saw it used, once,” Fives says, grim. “On Maridun. He and Generals Skywalker and Secura destroyed the prototype, though.”

“Not thoroughly enough, apparently.” Jon tilts his head back against the wall, grateful for the coolness against his pounding skull. “There are at least six factories nearby putting it into production. I was going to hit the base and then the factories. Dooku was an unplanned-for obstacle.”

“He’s like a wart,” Fives says moodily. “No one wants him, everyone has to deal with him. Ugh.”

Jon snorts, amused. “A cluster of warts,” he says.

“Right in the middle of the forehead,” Jesse agrees, and Fives snickers.

“That’s not—” Kix starts, and then stops. Considers for a moment, and then says, “Never mind. I don’t care that it’s not logical, that’s accurate.”

Echo makes a sound of amusement, and when Jesse sinks down beside him, he leans into him again. “If we can get out, those factories need to be a priority,” he says. “Or we at least need to get word back to the armies. That weapon is too dangerous to let the Seps have it.”

“Blueprints are dealt with,” Jon says. “And I got word to a contact to start looking for the creator. She’ll deal with him.” Slight exaggeration, but—there's no way Fay was caught, and Jon knows she’ll prioritize contacting Knol and getting rid of Lok Durd.

Jesse and Echo exchange looks, but Echo just says, “That’s a start. I’d feel better if the GAR could just bomb them into rubble, though.”

Jon tips his head, entirely in agreement. He and Fay aren’t meant for operations like this. They deal with small things, with people, with bringing healing and justice and help to those in need. But they're Jedi, too, even if they don’t associate with the Council. A threat like this, immediate and unknown to most of the galaxy, isn't something they can just let pass.

“They used it on a village _here_?” Kix asks quietly. “On their own citizens?”

“The people in power don’t care,” Jon says, on the edge of vicious. Takes a breath, when he hears the words, and deliberately, carefully lets his emotions be acknowledged, assessed, set aside. He’s too prone to anger as it is. “The CIS worlds have reasons for rebelling against the Republic, but those leading them—it’s never been about justified grievances. Just power.”

Fives is watching him, careful, close. “What did you say your name was again?” he asks abruptly.

“Jon,” he says quietly.

There's a moment of silence, like they're waiting for more. Fives frowns, opens his mouth—

“ _The whole place is probably bugged, right_?” Echo says in Mando’a, and Jon glances at him, then tips his head in a nod. Satisfaction flickers, and Echo nods back, then says, “ _Anything we say, Dooku knows_.”

Fives scoffs, but doesn’t protest. “What, like the fact that Dooku wants to suck Kenobi's toes?” he asks loudly, and Jesse makes a pained sound.

“Come on, vod, some of us have to serve with the 212th,” he complains. “I’ll never be able to look at Kenobi without thinking of that now, and the Jedi can _read minds_.”

Echo is laughing, head ducked to hide it. Jon can't help his own smile, remembering the desperate, rather uptight Knight he met on Queyta. Clearly, something’s changed over the years.

“Isn’t Kenobi like Dooku's grandson or something?” Kix asks, horrified. “Jedi grandpadawan or something? _Fives_.”

Fives rolls his eyes. “ _Jon_ appreciated my joke,” he says pointedly. “And so did Echo!”

“Echo’s been around you too long. You’ve corrupted him,” Jesse retorts. “And Jon doesn’t know better.”

With a sound of offense, Fives crosses his arms over his chest. “If Jon's playing saboteur, he’s probably at least _met_ Jedi,” he says.

“Most people never meet Jedi,” Jon says, which is about as far as he can edge around the topic without outright lying. “They’re legends on most planets.”

“There are only ten thousand of them,” Kix says, soft. “And there are millions of planets. I'm not surprised.”

“I always forget that,” Jesse admits. “Because it’s just us and them, out on the battlefield. I guess it just feels like that’s how the whole galaxy is.”

Echo tips his head. “If the Jedi are legends, I wonder what _their_ legends are,” he says, a note of humor in it. “Like the monster in the engine room having its own monster stories.”

Jon was never in a Temple, has only ever visited a handful scattered across the galaxy when he was in desperate need of healing or research he couldn’t find elsewhere. He entirely missed growing up in a crèche with other initiates, but—

This he knows, at least.

“About Jedi Masters, mostly,” he says, and Echo blinks. Jon brings his hands together, and—he’s entertained a handful of younglings on various planets with stories like this, trying to distract them from grief or hunger or danger. Would never have thought to use the stories on grown men, but—at the very least it can be a distraction. “There are old Masters, from ages long past, and Masters who live now who are considered legends by most people.”

“Really?” Fives sounds wholly enthusiastic about this line of discussion. “Like, Masters on the Council?”

Jon wants to snort, but just shakes his head. “Jedi who left the Temples without leaving the Order,” he says. “And who wander the edges of Wild Space, following the will of the Force instead of the orders of the Council.”

Kix looks thoughtful. “I guess I never thought about Jedi like that,” he says after a moment. “They all seem so respectful of the Council.”

“You can respect something and still disagree with it,” Jon says quietly. “The four nomadic Masters don’t want to destroy the Order, or leave it. They just don’t like the paths the Order has taken. According to the stories.”

“You know a lot about them,” Echo observes, watching Jon.

Jon just shrugs. “I like stories,” he says, and it’s true enough. It’s always entertaining when Nico passes on what he’s heard padawans whispering about in the Temples, the handful of times he’s returned there.

Fives opens his mouth, ready to ask another question, but before he can the door grinds. Jon instantly jerks to his feet, cursing himself for getting distracted and not listening for footsteps, and spins to face the entrance as the door swings open loudly. A deliberate choice, probably; it’s an intimidating sound, and it’s enough warning of what’s coming to inspire dread.

There's no Dooku this time. The Magna Guards return alone, dragging a form between them, and Kix makes a sound of alarm and lunges. Grabbing his arm, Fives hauls him back before he can hit the barrier, and by that time the Guards are already opening Jon's cell.

It’s tempting to lunge out, to go for them, but—

Jon absolutely believes Dooku when he says he’ll kill a prisoner for each of Jon's escape attempts, and with a concussion, without the Force, he doesn’t have absolute faith in his ability to win a fight right now.

Rex hits the ground hard when they throw him in, groans but doesn’t rise. He’s wet, clothes soaked, hair dripping, and his lips are turning blue. With a curse, Jon drops next to him, and says, “Captain, you need to get out of those clothes.”

“Too forward,” Rex slurs, but his teeth are chattering hard enough that it’s barely understandable. “Buy me dinner f-f-first.”

Jon lets out a breath of reluctant amusement. If Rex is still making jokes, that’s a good sign as far as his will is concerned. Getting a hand under Rex's elbow, he tugs him up, and Rex has enough sense to starts fumbling for the hems of his clothes, fingers gone thick and clumsy from cold more of a hindrance than a help. Jon doesn’t bat his hands away, though, lets him try and works around him, getting the soaked shirt and trousers off and then stripping off his own shirt. Rex is smaller than him, if not by much, and the shirt at least has a bit of extra room. It’s dry, too, and Jon wishes briefly, desperately for his oversized cloak, but it’s hidden away at the camp he and Fay made in the hills.

There’s no point in dwelling on it, though. Jon focuses on what he _does_ have, and sinks back against the wall, pulling Rex down so the captain’s back is against his chest. Wraps his arms around him, feeling the almost violent tremble in toe-cold muscles, and curses Dooku under his breath.

“Kriff,” Kix says, frustrated, _furious_. “Jon, is he hurt? Can you see anything?”

“Looks like they dunked him in ice water,” Jon says, because he’s familiar with the technique. “Once he warms up, he’ll be all right.”

“Until _next_ time,” Jesse says bitterly. His hands are curled into fists, and he says, “Captain, when they come back, let them take one of us. Fives or I can take it. We’ll be fine.”

“Won't,” Rex gets out, before another violent tremor steals the rest of his words. Jon shifts his grip, wraps his hands around Rex's numb hands and pulls them close to his chest, curls closer until they’re sharing as much body heat as he can offer, and Rex's rough laugh rattles. “Had dreams like this.”

“Much nicer dreams, I'm sure,” Jon says dryly.

Rex huffs through clenched teeth, tipping his head back against Jon's. “Rude,” he mutters.

“Believe me, Captain, I'm much harder to offend than that.” Jon shifts his feet to cover Rex's on the cold stone, and Rex shivers harder for a moment before he grunts in wordless thanks.

“You're all right, Jon?” Kix asks, frowning worriedly. “If you get too cold…”

He breaks off, and Jon knows all too well why. There’s no other option. He’s the only one in the cell with Rex, and if he doesn’t help, no one will.

“I'm fine,” Jon says. He can't get them out of the dungeon, so this seems like the least he can do.

“Need a break, take it,” Rex manages, but he turns his head, presses his face into Jon's neck regardless of the words.

If Jon was outside this cell right now, there would be nowhere in all of the known galaxy where Dooku could hide. Able to touch the Force or not, Jon would hunt him down and throw him through a whole city’s worth of walls.

“Just stay still and focus on getting warm, Captain,” Jon says quietly. “Don’t worry about me.”

Rex's breath against his throat is ragged, rueful. Jon doesn’t react, just closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing. Meditation won't do much of anything right now, but—

Jon needs to bleed off some rage, and that’s a better way than any other right now.

Rex drifts back to awareness to the sound of quiet voices around him, warmth behind him. He can feel a heartbeat under his back, a tingling pain in his limbs, a bone-deep sort of cold that won't be going away anytime soon, but—

It’s not the hypothermia he was expecting when Dooku's guards dragged him out into a mountain lake and shoved him under. That’s a pretty kriffing good start.

“— _one shot_ , and the whole karking thing exploded!” Fives's voice, with the enthusiasm he always reserves for talking about things blowing up. “It broke the blockade and disabled every last piece of the droid army.”

Rex can feel just as much as hear the thoughtful hum in the chest behind him. “And all of this while Skywalker was…nine?”

“Yeah,” Fives says, and the grin is obvious in his voice. “We got the coolest general in the GAR.”

“Don’t let any of the 91st hear you say that,” Kix warns, amused. “Right, Jesse?”

“They're entitled to their own opinions,” Jesse mutters. “Even when their opinions are _wrong._ ”

“Bet Neyo took you telling him that well,” Rex says, and manages to lift his head, even though he feels sore all over. Instantly, the arms around him loosen, letting him sit up, and Rex tries really, really hard not to think about how he was practically curled up in a stranger’s lap. A shirtless stranger, too, and he hides his grimace. A brother doing the same for him would be one thing, but a potential spy is another entirely.

“Neyo’s the biggest bastard in the GAR,” Fives says. “The fact that he likes General Windu so much is _weird_.”

Rex doesn’t tend to think so, personally. Neyo is a cold bastard, but he’s still a brother, and when he was assigned to Windu, Windu was still mourning Ponds, who had served with him for years. He would have seen that, and respected it. Maybe even helped with it, because Neyo liked Ponds, too, in his own way.

“Windu's the one who killed Jango,” Echo points out. “If anything could make Neyo respect someone, it’s that.”

Fives pulls a face. “ _Still_. Weird.”

Kix rolls his eyes. “Captain, how are you feeling?” he asks. “Breathing all right? Do you remember what happened?”

“Getting tossed in a lake?” Rex says dryly, and fights the shiver that wants to wrack him. “Vividly.” He glances at Jon, who’s watching him with faintly wary eyes, and forces himself to nod. “Thank you.”

Jon simply inclines his head in return, then says to Fives, “That was where Kenobi fought the Sith, right? Naboo?”

“Yeah.” Fives grimaces. “I guess his Master, who was the one who rescued General Skywalker, got killed in the fight. So Kenobi took Skywalker on instead, and now they're practically married.”

It’s not sensitive information. Anyone wanting to look up Skywalker's history could read the report. Still, Fives just giving information outright kind of sets Rex's teeth on edge.

“I've heard that,” Jon says, and shifts, grimacing faintly. With the lack of shirt, the bruises blooming across his chest and shoulders are all too clear, and Rex hesitates, torn.

On the one hand, there’s every chance Jon is one of Dooku's men, planted with them as a spy.

On the other, he must have been giving Rex body warmth for hours, even though he’s hurt himself, and in ways that wouldn’t make it very pleasant to lean against a wall without moving for all that time. He’s not complaining, either, and seemed more like he wanted to avoid Rex's thanks than anything. That’s…not what Rex would expect a spy to do.

“Here,” Rex says, and drags Jon's shirt off, tossing it to him. “Before you get hypothermia, too.”

Jon snorts, but catches it. “Yours should be dry by now,” he says. “It’s been about seven hours.”

A hell of a lot longer than Rex would have wanted to be out. He pulls a face, but gets his clothes, and—dry is probably stretching things a bit, but at least they're not actively wet, and Rex feels warm enough that wearing them should be fine. Pulling them on, he glances across the cells, then asks, “Any reappearances by our generous host?”

“They haven’t come down to take our breakfast orders yet, if that’s what you're asking,” Echo says dryly. “Some kind of patrol passed by outside the door about three hours ago—Jon heard them but couldn’t tell how many there were. Haven’t been back since, sir.”

Checking surveillance footage manually, maybe, Rex thinks. They might do it once a day, if Jon's telling the truth.

“Sharp ears,” he says to Jon, rather than something suspicious.

Jon just tips one shoulder. “A curse in inns with thin walls,” he answers, dry. “But droids aren’t exactly quiet on the stairs. I should be able to hear them coming.”

“Didn’t hear them when they dragged the captain back last time,” Fives points out, but it’s closer to teasing than anything, and one corner of Jon's mouth curls upwards.

“You were talking,” he says. “No one would have heard them over that.”

Echo laughs, and—well. Rex can be glad that his men have found _something_ to lift their spirits, even if that something is suspicious as all hells. “He has a point.”

“ _Traitor_ ,” Fives hisses, offended. “You're supposed to be on my side, Echo!”

“I am? It doesn’t say that anywhere in the regs.” Echo’s good at hiding his smirk, but Rex can still see the edges of it.

“Yeah, it does. Right under the heading _don’t be a traitor_ ,” Fives says crossly. “But it’s fine, Kix still loves me.”

Kix rolls his eyes, elbowing him as Fives flops dramatically against his side. “I’d be more willing to agree if you didn’t skip out on medical as soon as possible,” he says. “Just like certain captains I could name.”

“Leave me out of this,” Rex tells him, raising his hands. “I'm not part of this argument in any way, all right?”

“Of course not, sir. Just like you’ve never sneaked out of medical when I had my back turned.”

“That was under extreme circumstances—”

“You were playing strip sabacc with Commander Wolffe and Commander Gree, sir. I _saw_ you.”

“See?” Rex says, point successfully made. “It was for the honor of the 501st. Extreme circumstances.”

Jon is laughing. Almost soundless, half-hidden by the duck of his head, but Rex can see his shoulders shake with mirth. It’s…contained. Weirdly stifled, with an edge like he’s trying to keep it hidden, and Rex eyes him, a little confused by the reaction. “Back me up here,” he tells him, more to see his reaction than anything else.

With a soft snort, Jon lifts his head. He has a strange face, not anywhere close to handsome—angular, rough, with a nose that’s been broken plenty of times and eyes that are a little too pale for comfort. The humor mostly sits around his mouth, in his eyes, but—it’s definitely there. “How badly were you hurt?” he asks.

That’s not the backup Rex wanted. He scowls at him, and says, “I don’t see how that matters—”

“Four broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a blaster bolt to the _other_ shoulder, and a concussion,” Kix says mercilessly.

Jon considers for a moment. “You must be really bad at sneaking out if he caught you afterwards,” he tells Rex.

Jesse snickers. “Made it as far as the closest cantina,” he tells Jon. “About ten kilometers. Kix was so annoyed he sent the 212th’s medic to hunt the captain down.”

“I won the game,” Rex retorts, because he doesn’t want to think about what Shank threatened him with. Wolffe still tends to give the medic a wide berth whenever they're in the same general area.

“Then I think it was necessary,” Jon says, and Kix huffs.

“You sneak out of doctors’ offices often?” he asks, sounding like he’s disappointed in all of Jon's existence.

“What’s a doctor?” Jon asks, so seriously that it takes Rex a good four seconds to realize he’s joking.

Kix makes a sound of pure, pained dismay, and Rex can't help it. He laughs, and it twinges a little in his diaphragm, but it’s still a relief he wouldn’t have expected to feel down here, in the cold, with his body still aching.

“As soon as we get out of here, he’s going to sit you down and scan you more thoroughly than you ever would have thought possible,” Rex warns him.

Jon just hums, raising a brow. “Not if I manage to dramatically fake my death during our escape,” he says peaceably.

“Even that’s not going to save you,” Jesse tells him. “Or half of the 501st would have tried it already.”

“I'm _nice_ ,” Kix protests, offended. “I've never stabbed anyone from behind with a hypo.”

“You're very nice,” Rex says soothingly. “But there isn't a clone alive who’d rather sit in medical than be out doing something.”

Kix's narrow look says he isn't entirely sure how to take that. Before he has to decide, though, Echo says, “Fives gave you his story, Jon. You were going to tell us about the nomadic Jedi Masters.”

“The what?” Rex asks, startled. He turns to look at Jon, just in time to see a faint grimace cross his face.

“A story from the Temples,” he says, even so. “About four Jedi Masters who wander around the Outer Rim, helping people.”

Rex blinks, processing that. “I didn’t realize the Jedi had legends like that,” he says. The clones don’t, but—there have only been clones for a decade and change. He supposes it makes sense that the Jedi would have tales about some of their own breaking away. “Isn’t it bad for Jedi to leave the Order?”

“They didn’t,” Jon says, looking down at his hands. Slowly, deliberately, he rubs at the scars there, deep, aged things that make it look as if he likes to stick his hands in broken glass. Or punch windows, maybe. “The four Masters never surrendered their status as Jedi. They still believed in the Order’s founding principles, but—not the Council. So they fell out of contact, disappeared into the Outer Rim.” His thin mouth pulls, a rueful and almost grim expression. “Jedi hardly ever come to the Outer Rim.”

That sounds…bitter. Rex eyes him carefully, and asks, “You don’t like the Jedi?”

Jon blinks, glancing up, and the expression on his face is either honest bewilderment of the best fake Rex has ever seen. “The Jedi are the guardians of the galaxy,” he says. “They save the people who need it. What’s not to like?”

Rex doesn’t get a chance to answer. Jon's head jerks around, and he’s on his feet a moment later, a little too quick to believe. Maybe not all Human, then. “Droids,” he says shortly. “Magna Guards.”

A moment later, Rex can hear them, too. The heavy tread and the buzz of the electrostaffs is a dead giveaway, and he grits his teeth, standing stubbornly. Seven hours is all the break he gets, apparently. That’s fine. He’ll survive this, and whatever Dooku wants to throw at him.

He’s still so karking _cold_ , though. Shit.

When Dooku sweeps into the prison, though, his eyes only flicker over Rex for a derisive moment before they slide to Jon, and he tilts his head. “You. Or I can take the captain again. It’s your decision. Either way, I’ll find a way to entertain myself.”

Rex stiffens, but Jon is already moving, approaching the door of the cell as the Magna Guard deactivates it. It grabs him, hauls him out and shoves him forward, and Jon hisses, but lets it haul his hands behind him and lock them into cuffs.

“I assume,” he says to Dooku, sharp and arctic, “that the rule about escape attempts still applies?”

“Clever boy,” Dooku confirms, and Rex swallows. The life of one of his men in the hands of a stranger sits _wrong_ , but there's nothing to be done except hope that Jon behaves. That he lets himself be tortured without fighting back.

Rex breathes, breathes, breathes. He _hates_ this.

 _It’s fine_ , the more suspicious part of him whispers. _It’s a debriefing. He’s a spy. Nothing will happen to him_.

But—

Rex forces himself to watch Jon be led away, and he doesn’t know what to think.


	5. Chapter 5

“No escape attempts yet?” Dooku asks politely. “Is that really how a spy should be acting? Putting the lives of five clones before the information he holds on enemy weaponry?”

The howl of the wind past the mountaintop rings in Jon's ears, and the cold cuts right through the thin clothes that were forced on him. The lake they likely dumped Rex in is only a few yards away, but—

Jon is more concerned with the drop inches from his bare feet, and the Magna Guard’s grip on his bindings. If it pushes him at all, he’s going to go over, and while Jon wouldn’t normally worry about that kind of thing, he still can't touch the Force. 

Not the cells, then. Concussion, maybe—swelling of the brain, like the kind that can take a person’s sight. Something’s wrong with him, but if he heals enough, maybe it will get better. 

Jon has to believe that it will get better. 

“Maybe I like the accommodations,” he says, and doesn’t flinch when the Magna Guard shoves him three inches forward. The wind shrieks, and the valley is far below, but—

For one mad moment, Jon almost wants to throw himself forward and see what would happen. If Dark Woman taught him anything, it’s that desperation can produce impressive results. 

“You must,” Dooku says coolly. “Perhaps you would like to share them with a friend. Give me the name of the contact you informed of the facilities here.”

“No,” Jon says simply, because Dooku isn't a man used to being denied anything. Refusal will get him more of a reaction than humor, here. 

And, on cue, Dooku's mouth thins. He raises his chin, looking down his nose at Jon, and Jon turns his head to look back, expressionless. Knows what’s coming, and doesn’t care. It’s the same thing as walking into a fight, knowing he’s outnumbered. Bad odds in a necessary battle, and Jon knows full well how to keep going despite those. 

“Perhaps you truly do enjoy your stay with us,” Dooku says, soft. “One name, spy. I am a very generous man when I'm merciful.”

Jon snorts. “You're a disgraced Jedi,” he says flatly. “You turned to the _Sith._ Nothing about you is a man anymore, Dooku. You're a parasite.”

Dark Woman was a Temple Jedi, more or less. A spy, a hidden figure, but she went back to the Temple many times over the years. She trained a Council member, even. Jon, though—he was raised without any of that. He’s hardly ever spent more than a week in a Temple, and has never even visited the main Temple on Coruscant. And yet, he’s never wavered in his belief. A Jedi helps. A Jedi is a shield and a sword for those who need them. A Jedi defends against the darkness, with their own body and mind as the weapon. There is no lesser evil, just evil, and it’s their duty to fight it to a standstill wherever they find it, banish it, destroy it. 

Whatever Dooku thinks he’s doing, he has nothing common with a Jedi anymore. 

Dooku's mouth is thin, expression displeased for an instant before he hides it behind a veneer of elegant disgust. “Very well,” he says, and nods to the droids, who haul Jon back from the cliff. “Whoever trained you in mental shielding is quite talented. Let us see how much pain it takes to make those shields weaken.”

Jon laughs. It’s funny. Like Dark Woman wouldn’t have pushed him to the very edge and over it, making sure he could hold his shields when he was all but fully dead. If Dooku is looking to crack them, it’s going to take a hell of a lot more than a beating. 

Dooku doesn’t seem to find his amusement entertaining. He gestures, sharp, and the first Magna Guard hauls Jon up in an immovable grip, bracing him against it. A second marches closer, and Jon closes his eyes and tips his head back. Breathes out, loosening his muscles, and accepts the fact that it’s going to hurt. 

It’s fine. He was trained for this.

  
Kix prowls the edges of his cell like a caged nexu, practically ready to claw his way out of the force fields and go after Dooku alone. Rex eyes him warily from the back of his own cell, but—Fives is with him, and he’ll keep Kix from doing anything too stupid. 

“Kriff,” Jesse mutters, scrubbing a hand over his tattoo. “It’s been an hour, hasn’t it?”

“More,” Echo says, quietly grim. 

The silence aches like a bruise, too deep, too tight. Rex is still exhausted, too cold to do much to keep their spirits up. He tried, for the first few minutes, but—

His eyes are heavy, and all he wants is to sleep. Preferably somewhere soft and warm, but honestly, he’d take one or the other right now and be grateful either way. 

Fives is watching him. Silent, still, sitting slumped against the wall, but his eyes are sharp and steady. When Rex meets his gaze, he tips his head, and says in rolling-quick Mando’a, “ _What are the odds Dooku's got a Mandalorian on his staff_?”

Rex raises a brow. “Translator droids,” he says dryly. 

Fives grins, quick and wicked. “Sure, but it’ll still piss him off, having to use them.”

With a snort, Rex waves a hand, and answers in the same, “ _Well, I'm all for it_.”

“Jon speaks Mando’a,” Jesse says unexpectedly, leaning forward a little. “Or understands it, at least.”

That’s not overly common. Mandalorians are pretty tight-lipped about everything, language included; the only reason the trainers on Kamino decided to teach the clones under their watch was because it would give them an edge on the battlefield. Even being technically Mandalorian by virtue of training and progenitor might not have granted them the skill otherwise. 

It hardly means Jon's trustworthy, since Mandalorians are hardly one homogenous group and someone could have thought it was a good idea to teach an outsider, but…it’s still interesting. 

“ _He say anything_?” Rex asks, because if he did, Dooku already knows it anyway. Better that Rex knows, too. 

Echo huffs, soft. “ _Oh yeah_ ,” he says dryly. “ _Remember the Defoliator_?”

“Like I could forget,” Rex mutters. Not just for the weapon itself, but having to serve with Bly and watch him pine after his general like it was a competitive sport was a trial and a half. At least Anakin and Padmé are _slightly_ better, in that they’ve already realized they really do like each other. Rex has only been alive for twelve years, chronologically if not biologically, and he’s already too old for that bullshit. 

“ _They’re mass-producing it here_ ,” Fives says, tipping his head toward the outer wall. “ _Jon said he stole the blueprints and sent them on to the Republic, to warn them. Dooku caught him before he could take out the factories, though._ ”

Kriff. Rex scrubs at his scalp, trying to think it through. The Defoliator was a definite threat to the whole GAR, and Rex is honestly surprised this didn’t happen before, because a weapon that kills clones and leaves droids intact is exactly the sort of thing the Seps would love. They didn’t exactly get a good look at the planet to be able to tell where it is, but given the amount of time Sing had them and where they were previously, it’s probably safe to say they're pretty deep in the Outer Rim. Plenty of planets capable of hosting the facilities needed to produce weapons out here, and not a lot of Republic spies, either. It’s a good spot, and the new weapon would explain Dooku's presence neatly. 

It’s not the sort of information a Sep spy would hand over, though, even to win their trust. That kind of thing is valuable, dangerous; it’s what Republic operatives would risk their lives a dozen times over to get their hands on. Even if it’s not true, it would turn public opinion firmly against the Separatists, too, the moment even the rumor of it got out. A weapon like that doesn’t make any sort of allowances for civilians, after all. 

Unless Dooku is absolutely certain that none of them will escape, or that Anakin won't come to rescue them, there’s no use using that particular weapon as credits to buy their belief. 

Maybe Dooku is. But that seems like a stupid move for a man who usually layers his plots ten levels deep, so maybe Jon really is the real thing. 

Or maybe he’s not, and this is all just part of Dooku's plan. 

“Slag,” he says out loud, tired of his brain spinning in circles, and Fives snorts. 

“You can say that again, Captain,” he says, thumping his head back against the wall. “Kix, come on, it’s cold.”

“It’s been too long,” Kix says grimly. “Unless they're—” He falters, not quite finishing, and Jesse makes a sound of unhappy agreement. 

_They’ll tell us if they execute him_ , Rex doesn’t say, but he certainly thinks it. Dooku will probably make a production of it. Bring them a severed head or something. They’ll be informed. 

And then, of course, Rex can twist himself up into knots about how he could have helped the guy but didn’t, and—well. 

If there’s one thing this war has taught him, it’s that you can't save everyone, and then you have to live with that. 

“ _You think he’s a spy_ ,” Echo says unexpectedly, and Rex flicks him a glance, finds Echo watching him closely, hunkered down by the edge of the cell. When Fives jerks around to look at him, startled, Echo doesn’t move, just holds Rex's gaze steadily. “ _A plant by the count_?”

Rex leans back against the cold stone wall, trying not to think of waking up to warmth when he had only expected hypothermia. Trying not to think of the scars on Jon's hands, and the furtive way he laughed, head ducked and face hidden like someone was going to punish him for it. 

“ _He’s shady_ ,” he says at last. “ _And I don’t like the timing_.”

“Captain!” Kix protests. 

“He’s right,” Echo says quietly. “But at some point we’re going to have to figure out how far suspicion goes before we’re all in this together.”

Echo’s ARC trooper material to the core. He’s quick and clever and deliberate, thinks things through and weighs his decisions out. Rex has spent a long time training him, helping him learn to trust his instincts, and—

This might be one of the times when he should trust Echo, but—something itches. Something that says Jon is hiding things, and Rex shouldn’t give him any room to betray them, because he undoubtedly will. 

The clank of the door spares him from having to come up with an answer. Rex shoves to his feet, turning to face the entrance, and freezes at the sight of Magna Guards, Dooku, a body being dragged—

“I can help!” Kix says, loud, immediate. He throws himself at the door, almost touching the barrier before he comes to a sharp stop, and says, “Count Dooku, I can help him, I’m a medic. If you’ll just let me—”

“Captain,” Dooku says, flat, cold, and meets Rex’s eyes. “Control your men, or I will set the task to my guards.”

Rex breathes in, out. Lifts his chin, and says, “Kix, stand down.”

“Sir,” Kix starts, but then Fives is there, grabbing him by the elbows and hauling him back. Rex can’t make out what he’s murmuring, but whatever it is, it makes Kix grit his teeth and duck his head in an unhappy nod, letting himself be drawn away from the barrier. 

Jon, dangling from the grip of a Magna Guard, still isn’t moving, and there’s a steady drip of blood on the floor. 

_Oh,_ Rex thinks, and it’s a cold, resigned thing. _They brought the body back_. As statements go, it’s a pretty impactful one. Exactly Dooku’s style, to let them sit in a cell block with the body of someone who tried to resist, aware at every moment what he’s going to do to them next. 

“I take little pleasure in this, Captain,” Dooku says. Dooku _lies,_ because Rex can see the look in his eyes, the cold, steady anger and derision that’s always been there. _Sith,_ he thinks, and his hands clench into impotent fists. 

“Yeah?” Rex says, slow, on the edge of too impertinent, but—there’s blood pooling on the stone, and he _can’t._ “So this is just your version of the daily slog? Some people wait tables, you wake up and torture people to death? What a hard life.”

“This is a fight for a greater cause than any one life,” Dooku says. “Any million lives. That does not mean it is a pleasure for me to see to its end.” He turns, nodding to the guards, and one of them keys the cell open. Methodically, the one dragging the body flings Jon in, letting him land with a thud, and they close the cell again, then march out after Dooku. 

Instantly, Kix is moving, practically shoving himself up against the front of the cell as he tries to look. Rex is slower, more reluctant; he doesn’t want to prove what he suspects, and he crouches down, gets a hand on Jon’s shoulder—

There’s a jerk, a hard twitch, and Jon rolls out from under his hand. Doesn’t make it far, but immediately collapses on his stomach with a pained groan, eyes still shut. His next breath shakes, and he gags, then spits up a mouthful of blood. 

“Sithing _hells,”_ Rex manages, and reaches for him. “Jon?”

With a low sound, Jon curls in on himself, head ducking, putting his back to Rex. Covering organs, Rex thinks, the realization edged with something vicious. He’s muttering, too, something quick and strangled, and Rex catches a few fragmented words, _dark_ and at least one _Sith,_ and breathes out. 

“Jon,” he says again, louder this time. “I’m going to touch you.”

No reaction, and Rex steels himself, hopes he’s not about to get his wrist broken, and reaches out. When his hand settles on Jon’s back, there’s a flinch, full-body and violent, but Jon doesn’t otherwise move. 

“Captain?” Kix asks, tight. 

“I’m working on it,” Rex says, and adds, to Jon, “Hey. Anything bleeding out?”

There’s a long, long moment of silence, and then a rasping breath. “No,” Jon says, and Rex can’t help the wash of relief. He slowly, deliberately flattens his hand against Jon’s back—

And gets another flinch, stark and obvious. Quickly, Rex pulls back, and even though the immediate instinct with another clone would be to touch, to hold, he contains the urge and sits back on his heels. 

“You’re worrying Kix,” he says quietly. “Think you can roll over and let him get a look at you? Unless you really meant that _what’s a doctor_ thing, in which case I think he’s going to cry.”

Kix rolls his eyes but doesn’t actually argue. “Are you breathing okay?” he asks. “That was blood you spit out, so—”

“Bit my tongue,” Jon rasps, and very carefully pushes himself up. Rex reaches out to help, then stops short, forcing himself to pull his hands back. Jon makes it mostly upright on his own, regardless, and slumps there for a moment, breathing hard. “They just knocked me around.”

That’s not what Rex would call it, and he doubts Kix would be that generous, either. There’s a long cut down Jon’s arm that’s bleeding through his shirt, and it looks like someone attempted to break his nose again, from the amount of blood on his face. That might be the cause of the blooming black eyes, but—somehow Rex doubts it’s the only one. 

“Tenderized?” he asks, and Jon snorts. He strips off his shirt, grimly tearing the sleeve off where it’s soaked in red, and wraps it around the cut with an efficiency that says he’s done this before. Silently, Rex offers his hands, and Jon nods in thanks, turning so Rex can tie the bandage off. 

“Thoroughly,” Jon says, and there’s a trace of tired humor to it. “They told you about the weapon?”

“They did,” Rex says grimly, and—he doesn’t know what to believe. This is a lot to endure for a plant, and Dooku’s planning to wring whatever he wants out of them with torture anyway. “Does your contact know they’re in danger?”

Jon’s smile is thin, dangerous. “Dooku didn’t get her name, and he won’t. She’ll be fine.”

Rex meets his eyes, and—that’s a lot to promise. But Jon believes it, and he’s settled in the thought, steady in it. 

“You trust yourself that much?” he asks quietly, not judgmental but a little wary even so. 

With a snort, Jon shifts, wincing. Carefully, he settles himself back against the rear wall, then breathes out a slow sigh, and says, “I wouldn’t want to inflict her on Dooku. He wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Rex watches his too-pale eyes slide shut, judges his breathing. “Damage?” he asks quietly. 

“I know how to take a punch,” Jon says, equally soft. “It’s just bruises.”

Rex eyes the cut down his arm and doesn’t say anything. 

As if he did anyway, Jon huffs. Without even opening his eyes, he says, “Electrostaff slipped. Dooku needs to hire better help.”

Which means electricity burns, too, likely. Rex lets it be, though, and glances over at Kix, who still looks worried. 

“You shouldn’t sleep,” he says, reaching out like he’s going to press a hand to the barrier, then stopping himself at the last moment. “If there’s any internal damage, you need to be awake to notice it.”

Rex doesn’t bother pointing out that there’s nothing they can do about it if there is internal damage. Kix likely knows that better than any of them.

“I can sit next to you and pinch you whenever you start to snore,” he offers dryly. 

Jon’s mouth curves, and he tips his head. “If you want, Captain. I’ll be fine.”

“Someone needs to remove that word from the dictionary,” Kix mutters, and Jesse snorts. 

“The generals would just find an alternative,” he points out. “I think Kenobi would go for _groovy.”_

“Shank would _actually_ kill him,” Fives says, awed. “Straight-up murder him and never look back.”

“I think Kenobi’s more a _fabulous_ kind of person,” Echo says, dry. “But General Skywalker would probably default to _wizard.”_

Kix groans. “None of these are even slightly better,” he complains. 

Jon makes a quiet sound of amusement, and Rex glances at him. His breathing has steadied, but there are tight lines of pain in his face, and—

He didn’t have to do as much as he did for Rex, after the dunk in the lake. Rex wouldn’t have died, and he’d have warmed up eventually. But he shared body heat anyway, and Rex woke up warm, almost back to normal. 

The decision to settle against the wall, just close enough for their shoulders to brush, is an easy one in light of that. 

Jon flinches at the first touch, eyes opening. He glances at Rex, then pauses, and when Rex doesn’t move he lets out a slow breath, tips his head, and closes his eyes. 

“I’m going to be boring for a while, Captain,” he says quietly. 

“Makes a nice change from those four,” Rex says, unbothered, and tips his head at where Echo, Fives, and Jesse are still debating alternatives to _fine,_ to Kix’s increasing horror. 

Jon’s huff of laughter is almost soundless, and he closes his eyes again. Deliberately, Rex leans in slightly, pressing their shoulders together, and this time there’s no twitch. Just an exhale, slow and steady, and Jon’s breathing deepening, evening out. Some kind of pain management technique, Rex thinks, watching him. It’s got some similarities to a Jedi’s meditation, even if it’s not quite so structured. 

There’s a smear of blood across the cell floor that Rex can’t quite pull his eyes from. Another outside, where the Magna Guard dragged Jon in. and—maybe a spy would go to those lengths, but Rex can hardly imagine they’d react like this in the aftermath. 

_Captain,_ he thinks, and closes his own eyes. That’s a deliberate choice, Jon always using his title. And maybe someone else wouldn’t have noticed, but names have a hell of a lot of meaning to clones. The others have definitely used his name, but—Jon hasn’t used it. Because Rex hasn’t introduced himself, maybe, or given him permission to. Dooku uses his title as a bit of mockery, a taunt, but—

There hasn’t been anything but respect in Jon’s voice when he’s said it, and that’s…

Well. Something to consider, potentially. 

  
“Aren’t you worried about someone seeing you?” Hardcase asks, tense and twitchy as he watches Fay slip back down into the forest. “You’re a Jedi, if Dooku or someone realizes you’re here…”

Fay chuckles, pulling her hood back. “No one’s going to see me if I don’t want them to,” she says, and it’s true enough. Erasing thoughts of her as she passes takes more concentration than she would like, but in small towns she can more than manage it. “Besides, you need clothes, and we both need food. Scavenging in the forest would take too long when we have other things to do.”

Hardcase takes the bundle of clothes she passes him, and Fay can _feel_ his confusion. “Scavenge?” he asks. “But—the Order gives you credits, right? You can just buy what you want.”

Fay snorts. “Republic credits?” she asks. “Carefully doled out by the Senate as long as the Jedi behave? I wouldn’t take such things even if I _was_ in contact with the Temple.”

For a moment, Hardcase squints at her. Then, with a sound of pure frustrated resignation, he asks, “Are you _sure_ you’re a Jedi, Master Fay?”

Reaching up, Fay pats him on the shoulder. “Hardcase,” she says gently, “I am a Jedi like the _original_ Jedi, far closer to the tenants of the first Jedi Order than anyone who currently sits on the Council and plays games with the Chancellor.”

“General Skywalker likes to blow things up,” Hardcase says, aggrieved, and strips off the top of his thermals, pulling on a rough worker’s shirt instead. _“He’s_ easy to understand.”

“I’m sure he is,” Fay agrees, amused, and crouches down, sweeping a hand over a clear patch of sandy soil while Hardcase finishes dressing. A moment later, he crouches down beside her, and Fay quickly sketches out the rough layout of the valley. 

“There are droids guarding the edges of the factory grounds,” she says, “so I wasn’t able to get inside, but from what the people in town were saying, the mines come up right in the belly of the building, and we should be able to get in and out through there.”

Hardcase frowns, reaching out to follow the line of the mineshaft with a finger. “We need to destroy the whole thing, right? Planting charges around the main supports should be more than enough, and I know my way around an explosive or two. Don’t suppose you have any on you, Master Fay?”

Fay tilts her head, considering. “There are enough droids garrisoned at the factory that they likely have an armory somewhere nearby,” she says. “Hitting it first might let them know we’re coming, though.”

Hardcase grins, and it’s bright across his face, a vibration of _eager-happy-idea_ that makes Fay smile instinctively. “How’s your sneaking, Master Fay? If we can get in and out before they notice us, we can get enough charges to hit all the factories, maybe stash them somewhere. If we do it before a shift change happens, there should be plenty of time to blow the place before they even notice.”

Droids are much harder to slip past than humans, given that they don’t have minds Fay can twist, but…

“I could cause a distraction,” she says, and touches a point on the map where the road passes between the arms of the closest mountain. It’s a narrow gap, hemmed in by stone—perfect for a surprise attack. “The deliveries have to pass this point. I’ll attack one, and you can get the explosives while their attention is on me.”

Hardcase hesitates, looking torn. “I could hold up the supply transports,” he offers, “and you could—”

Fay raises a brow at him, and he trails off, sheepish. 

“Right,” she says, amused. “Blowing the factory up will certainly be enough of a signal to let Antilles know where we are, and we can check to see if there are any traces of your squad there, too. Transports seem to pass regularly, too, so this won’t take long.”

Hardcase nods determinedly. “You have a comm?” he asks. “To pass on the signal when you’re moving?”

Fay shakes her head, because having a comm means people contacting her, and the only ones who do that are Nico, Knol, and Jon, and they all do it in person. “May I have your permission to touch your mind?” she asks. When Hardcase blinks at her, she smiles and lifts a hand. It’s easy to find his thoughts, to add a dart of her own to them in the shape of _like this,_ and when he startles, she tilts her head at him. 

“That’s you?” Hardcase blurts, then stops short, flushes faintly, and says, “Uh, yes, Master Fay, of course. Won’t it be too far, though?”

“Of course not,” Fay says mildly, and doesn’t tell him that she could probably put everyone in the town to sleep if she needed to, just by walking past its borders. Rising to her feet, she smiles, and says, “Let’s get you close to the armory. I’d like to be done with this by sunrise.”

“Sure, Master Fay.” Hardcase pushes upright, then pauses, and asks, “No offense, but how are you going to stop the transports if you don’t have a lightsaber? I can give you my blaster, if you want.”

“I’ll make do, but thank you,” Fay tells him, both touched and amused, and leads the way out of the trees, keeping carefully to the shadows. 

This is usually Jon’s part of things, but—well. Branching out once in a while isn’t terrible, Fay reflects, and destroying droids is hardly _difficult._ And she’s a Jedi, but more than anything she’s a Healer; if this weapon is going to be used on people, she’ll stop it, no matter what. Inoculation, or preventative medicine. That’s as much a Healer’s tactic as anything, and Fay learned long ago that one decisive strike can save far more lives than all the mending in the aftermath. 


	6. Chapter 6

“A public comm? Really, Fay?” Knol asks, amused.

Even with the image grainy and flickering, Fay rolling her eyes is all too clear. “There wasn’t time for the usual channels,” she says, and turns, and in the projection Knol catches a half-second glimpse of a Human man’s broad back, blocking Fay from sight. “And it’s safe on my end. No one will see us.”

Jon, for all his habit of wrapping himself in more cloth than any three normal beings combined, doesn’t have quite that build. He’s taller, too, and the difference makes Knol cock her head interestedly. Fay, for all her penchant for mental tricks, wouldn’t outright _puppet_ anyone, so it must be an ally.

“Us?” Knol echoes pointedly.

Fay's smile is perfectly pretty and as sharp as Knol's favorite vibroblade. “Hardcase,” she says, and the man turns. A clone, Knol thinks, and raises a brow. That’s _interesting._

Undeterred, Fay smiles, and says, “Hardcase, this is Master Knol Ven’nari, a companion of mine.”

Knol lifts her glass in toast, smirking. “Hello there,” she says. “Keeping Fay out of trouble, soldier?”

Hardcase squints at her. “Um.”

Knol can't help it; she laughs, leaning back, and brings her comm closer to her. The bar is mostly empty, because it’s rapidly heading towards morning, and a steady push of Force suggestion keeps anyone from looking her way, but it’s always better not to shout. “I'm joking. No one can keep Fay out of trouble, soldier. You’d best not even bother. Just try to keep up with her.”

She expects protest, or maybe despair. What she gets instead is a grin, edged with challenge, and the clone trooper salutes. “I’ll do my best, Gen—uh. Master?”

“Good kid,” Knol approves, amused, and shifts her gaze to Fay. “Where’d you pick up a clone trooper, Fay? And where’s the drifter?”

“We got separated,” Fay admits. “I think he was captured, at about the same time as I found Hardcase.”

Well, there’s not a prison in existence that can hold Jon Antilles when he doesn’t want to be held. Knol frowns a little, but—for all the many reasons she’d like to rip Dark Woman’s face off, she did train Jon thoroughly. With a grunt, she tips her head, accepting that, and asks, “Found him?”

Hardcase glances at Fay, and when she nods, he says, “Aurra Sing grabbed my squad and sold them to the Seppies here. I'm trying to rescue them.”

“Sing,” Knol says, and it vibrates like a growl in her throat. “You need backup, Fay?”

“I certainly wouldn’t need it to deal with Aurra Sing,” Fay says, more or less peaceably. “No, I was hoping to ask a favor of you, Knol, if you're not currently occupied.”

Knol pauses, casting a glance towards the front of the bar, where the bastard she’s been watching all night is still deep in his cups. “I'm on Coruscant,” she warns. “Working a mission with Diath. That going to be a problem?”

Fay hesitates, looking uncertain. “Potentially,” she allows. “I need you to find someone and make sure he stops selling weapons plans to the CIS.”

That’s not at all what Knol thought she was going to say. With a frown, she lowers her glass, considering Fay. They’ve been trying to stay out of the war, all four of them, and for Fay and Jon to both get themselves into the middle of things so thoroughly, they must have come across something big.

“That bad?” she asks, concerned.

“A weapon that targets anything biological,” Fay confirms, looking grim. “They tested it on a village here. Jon and I retrieved all the copies of the blueprints, but I'm worried about the inventor.”

A bastard, Knol decides, scowling. “Name,” she says. “I’ll find them and see if I can't shake some remorse out of them for you.”

That, at least, makes Fay smile. “Thank you, Knol. My apologies for interrupting your mission.”

Knol waves a hand. “This is more urgent. Nico's slave profiteers can wait a day or two. He’ll want to get in on this, too.”

It’s easy to see Fay's relief, which means it must be bad. She’s not normally so easy to unsettle. “The inventor is Lok Durd, a Neimoidian. I believe he was part of the Trade Federation, but if he’s openly putting his name on Separatist weapons, I'm not sure he’s still one of them.”

Trade Federation. Of course. Knol wrinkles her nose, fur rippling in irritation. “I’ll find him,” she promises. “Are you waiting for that drifter to show up to make your next move?”

Fay's smile shifts into something almost wicked, full of thorns. Bothans have horror stories about smiles like that, Knol thinks, admiring. “I believe Hardcase and I can more than handle the destruction of the factories. May the Force keep you safe, Master Ven’nari.”

“And you, Master Fay. _K'oyacyi_ , Hardcase.”

Hardcase grins and gives her a salute, clearly pleased to be included. “Good hunting, Master Ven’nari.”

Knol chuckles. “I like you. Don’t get your head blown off,” she tells him, and closes the transmission, sitting back in her chair. Considers her drink for a moment, then tosses it back and rises to her feet, pulling her hood back up over her face. The asshole at the bar can wait; he’s done nothing but spend credits and drink for the past week, and Knol doesn’t expect that to change any time soon. This is more important right now.

When she pushes out of the bar onto the darkened street of one of Coruscant’s lowest levels, Nico is just approaching, robed and hooded and imposing in the shadows. He frowns at the sight of her, and asks, “Movement?”

“From that slob? Ha.” Knol folds her arms over her chest, careful not to let her lightsaber show under her coat. Jedi don’t tend to come down here often. Even slow, stately Coruscanti Jedi have better things to waste their time on, and she doesn’t want to look remarkable. “No, Fay commed me.”

“Commed you,” Nico echoes, concern flickering bright-sharp through him. The peace that was there cracks, then resettles carefully, and Knol snorts.

“How’s Tae?” she asks pointedly. Nico's only that cautious when he thinks his nephew might need to use his thoughts as an anchor.

Nico is unmoved. “Well enough. He and his friends will soon be Masters, I am afraid. The Jedi are pressed for numbers and rushing with no regard for custom.”

“Yeah, but if you hadn’t dragged us all to Jabiim, they’d be a lot more pressed,” Knol says. “Eight padawans who became Knights, because we stepped in.”

“For what purpose?” Nico asks quietly. “To fight a war that never should have started?”

Knol just shrugs. “It did start, and there's nothing we can do about it now except save as many innocents as we can. You going to help me with Fay's mission or not?”

Nico's sigh is long-suffering, but Knol can see the way his mustache twitches. “My businessman?”

“Drunk as a monkey-lizard in a still. He’s not going much of anywhere, at least until someone pours him back into his room.” Knol flicks a glance sideways, but a shadow in an alley resolves itself into a man arguing into a comm, his back to them, voice low. Letting out a breath, she forces herself to relax; it’s a common enough sight, down here. “It’s about Sep weapons. You know she wouldn’t call unless it could turn the war around.”

Nico inclines his head, though his expression is rueful. “Wasn’t she planning to meet Antilles?”

“You expect them to _not_ end up neck-deep in a plot to wipe out whole armies?” Knol asks with a snort. “He’s somewhere, I'm sure. Come on, we need to see a Neimoidian about a weapon.”

“For a Bothan, your lack of subtlety is alarming,” Nico complains, but he follows her when she turns towards the nearest tangle of streets that lead up out of neighborhood they’ve been staking out. Knol's not about to complain about the chance to get some fresh air; she’s been breathing with the cantina rats all week, and she’s sick of it.

Knol chuckles, fur rippling. “You say the sweetest things, Diath,” she retorts.

Nico just sighs, like she can't feel his amusement. “I assume this Neimoidian is the dealer?” he asks.

“Inventor,” Knol corrects, and grins. “Think he’ll be interested in a few new customers?”

Nico, well aware of her ability to act, closes his eyes for a moment. “I refuse to play your boy-toy,” he says with all possible dignity.

Knol laughs at him. “Once,” she tells him. “It was _once_.”

“Once was more than enough.” Nico flicks a glance ahead of them, where a transparisteel window casts back a distorted reflection under the glow of the lights, and frowns. Reaches out, and Knol accepts the mental touch without comment.

 _We’re being followed_.

Knol senses it, too. A mind behind them, too intent, touched with a wash of suspicion, and she hums. The man from the alley, unless she misses her guess. _Looks interesting,_ she returns, and Nico's agreement is sharp and cool.

Silently, of the same mind, they turn into a particularly dark stretch of streets, and Nico leaps up to catch hold of a scaffolding, pulling himself up in perfect silence to follow from above. Knol keeps her pace, tugging her coat a little more tightly around her, and makes a show of checking the time. Scoffs, like she’s late, and hurries a few steps, turning a sharp corner and ducking down another row of shops. Another Bothan eyes her, but Knol bares her teeth at him and he keeps moving with a touch more haste.

Behind her, footsteps pick up speed, and Knol huffs in amusement. Subtle, but not subtle enough, she thinks with satisfaction, and leaps up to catch a low-hanging ladder. Scales it, quick, and vaults over the edge of a balcony that wraps around the building. There’s a footbridge that crosses to the next section of elevated street, and about a block beyond it there’s an easy entrance to Coruscant’s underworld, where Knol can definitely lose a pursuer.

She’s about halfway there when the footsteps start running.

“Figured it out, huh?” Knol murmurs, pleased with his cleverness, and shifts into a loping run, crossing the bridge and taking a sharp left, then leaping across the gap to the next building. It’s a jump most Humans would hesitate to try, but the man behind her doesn’t even pause; he launches himself across, lands, rolls. Knol catches a glimpse out of the corner of her eye of black and grey clothes, a hooded jacket, but he’s got a cloth pulled up over the bottom half of his face and the most she can make out is dark skin. With a huff, she vaults a railing and drops, hitting the next footbridge, and takes two long steps towards the edge of it—

“Stop!” the Human growls, and it’s almost respectable, for a Bothan. He lands behind her, surprisingly steady despite the run, and rises like it’s a threat, stance squared and braced ready. “Stop where you are.”

Knol laughs, turning to face him with a grin that shows teeth. It’s not the same to a Human as it is to a Bothan, but by the way the man’s eyes narrow, he picks up on the meaning regardless. “If you go around yelling orders like that, little man, someone down here’s going to think that you’ve got authority,” she says. “And not many people like that.”

Reaching up, the man drags his scarf down, and—

Clone, Knol thinks, going still. Well. _That’s_ unexpected.

“The Coruscant Guard _orders_ you to stand down,” the man says, sharp. “On charges of plotting against the Republic.”

Knol rolls her eyes. Of _course_.

“Coruscant Guard, huh?” is all she says, though. “Hear that, Nico? He’s _arresting_ us.”

“A shock, truly,” Nico says, dust-dry, as he drops lightly onto the bridge behind the clone trooper. “With your penchant for rule-breaking and general demeanor, I can't imagine why.”

“You can't talk,” Knol retorts. “You’ve made a Hutt cry, don’t yell at _me_ about bad personalities.” She eyes the street, and it’s not quite empty, but it’s close enough. No one else heard the clone say he was with the Guard, and there’s no one down here who’s going to step in. Not for a stranger. That’s not how it works.

The faintest threads of trepidation are twisting through the trooper. “You’re advised to come quietly,” he says, even so, and takes a deliberate step back, trying to keep them both in sight. “This won't go well for you if you resist. There are more Guardsmen already on their way down here—”

Knol snorts. “No, there aren’t,” she says. “Because you were undercover, and you didn’t exactly stop to comm for backup before you bolted after us, little man. Overheard something alarming, huh?”

The trooper stills, caught, and Knol smiles lazily. She takes three taunting steps towards him, watching his eyes flicker over her as he looks for concealed weapons, and asks, “You thinking what I'm thinking, Diath?”

“I'm not Fay. Don’t expect me to read your mind at every spare moment,” Nico says reprovingly, and the trooper jerks. Before he can turn, Knol ducks forward, grabbing his wrists as his hand goes towards his belt, and hauls him sideways, throwing him off balance. He spins, trying to sweep her feet out from under her, but Knol kicks his foot away, flips up, twists over, and lands behind him, hauling him up against her chest with his arms locked behind his head.

“Easy,” Knol tells him. “We won't hurt you. Name, trooper?”

The man snarls, jerks, but Knol's stronger than a Human. He can't break her grip. “CC-1010, Coruscant Guard. I'm loyal to the Galactic Republic—”

“Yeah,” Knol says dryly. “Believe me, we noticed. Nico?”

Nico raises a hand, eyes narrowing, and the Guard twitches. His eyes roll back in his head, and he slumps in Knol's grip, going limp all at once. She grunts, but drags him up, ducking down and hauling him over her shoulders before she straightens again. “CC?” she echoes. “That’s a commander, right?”

There's no answer, and she cocks her head, looking at Nico. “Nico, what?”

Slowly, carefully, Nico lowers his hand, frowning. He crosses the space between them, leaning in to check the Human’s pulse, and says softly, “Someone has been controlling this man. Someone using the Dark Side. There are enough scars in his mind that I am astonished he can still stand and breathe at the same time.”

“Then we’ll have to help him,” Knol says simply. That’s what being a Jedi _is_. “Dark Jedi got him?”

Nico raises his head, meeting her eyes, and he looks deeply worried in a way she hasn’t seen since the start of the war. “No,” he says quietly. “Someone far, far more powerful, I believe. And someone he has been in contact with almost constantly.”

Well, only a handful of people that could be, as far as Dark Siders are concerned. There's a Sith Lord or Sith Apprentice somewhere on Coruscant, and they’re someone who has access to the Guard. Knol glances sideways at their unconscious commander, and then offers, resigned, “Can I say I hope you're wrong?”

“I hope I'm wrong, too,” Nico says grimly. “Let’s get somewhere under cover.”

“Undercity it is,” Knol says, pleased, and takes two running steps and then leaps, Nico right behind her. The dark hole beneath the bridge swallows the light, and Coruscant’s underbelly rises to meet them, dark and neon-splashed and filthy. It’s the perfect place to hide, and Knol leads the way into the tunnels without hesitation.

If the Sith Lord wants to find them down here, he’s welcome to try. Knol will be ready for him. Innocent lives in a Jedi's care means they have reason enough to not stop fighting until they're dead and cremated.

A sudden weight against his shoulder makes Rex go still, dry counter to Jesse's overly-embellished story about their time on Dantooine tangling in his throat. He doesn’t dare move enough to look over, but—

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jon's head resting on his shoulder. The man is slumped over, and while Rex had felt the weight on him increasing, he’d thought it was just Jon starting to get comfortable, relaxing even with someone touching him.

This is more relaxation than he expected, though.

There's a muffled snicker, and Rex turns his head just enough to give Fives a dirty look. Fives grins at him, perfectly unabashed, and says, “You're always the best at getting stray cats to come to you, aren’t you, Captain? I forgot about that.”

Rex rolls his eyes. “I just mind my own business and let them figure things out,” he says, because it’s not _actually_ applicable to this situation. “Kix?”

“It’s been almost four hours,” Kix says, considering. “He’s still breathing all right? Any temperature changes?”

Jon's hand is resting on his own knee, but he’s close enough that Rex just barely has to turn his hand to press his fingertips against the skin. “Cool,” he says. “But I think we all are, right now.”

Less so than before, with Jon pressed completely up against his side. Rex breathes out, and—it’s a help for him, too, to be so close. Clones don’t normally go this long without contact, even little things like a hand on the shoulder or a clap on the back, and with the stress, Rex feels the lack all the more.

Kix frowns, but nods. “It should be fine,” he says. “You're okay, Captain?”

“Fine,” Rex says, willing to try and pretend that he can't feel the brush of Jon's breath over his collarbone. Exhaustion is an understandable reaction, after taking a beating. He slept more than long enough after his dip in the lake, after all. This is just—returning the favor.

“He flinches a lot,” Jesse says, watching them. “Even about little stuff.”

Rex has noticed that, too. It’s kind of hard not to. “Not used to it, maybe,” he says.

Kix looks uncertain, and his gaze flickers from Rex to Jon and back. “Maybe,” he says. “But that kind of thing—it might be because of negative reinforcement.”

Being told that touch is bad, and having it proved repeatedly. Rex might not be a medic or a doctor, but he can figure that much out. Blowing out a breath, he thumps his head back against the wall lightly, and says, “Yeah. Maybe. Also, that story is poodoo, Jesse. Like hell you did.”

“It’s true!” Jesse protests. “Both of them!”

Fives snickers. “I’d expect Echo to admit to tongue wars with a reg manual before I believed that,” he retorts.

Echo splutters in offense, and Jesse laughs. “Well, that’s just a normal night,” he retorts, and with a sound of pure annoyance Echo tackles him to the floor of the cell. Fives whoops as they go down, and Kix groans, covering his face with a hand. Rex snorts, and when Jon shifts faintly he automatically puts up a hand to steady his head. It’s only a second too late that he realizes that this isn't Cody falling asleep on his shoulder, and by then there's no chance to abort the motion. Jon's breath catches, and with a sharp twitch he jerks away from Rex's fingers, then hisses.

“Easy,” Rex says quickly, wanting to reach out but not letting himself. “I think your body hates you enough right now as it is.”

Jon takes one breath, then another, and lifts his head. “Hates Dooku, maybe,” he says, with more humor than Rex would expect of anyone waking up with that many bruises. Then, awkwardly, he adds, “Sorry.”

Rex shrugs, deliberately turning his attention to Echo pinning Jesse like he’s going to grind his face into the stone. “It was warm. Don’t worry about it. Echo, if you break his nose you'll make Kix sad.”

“He will?” Kix asks, all perfect, innocent surprise, and Jesse squawks in outrage, his struggles redoubling.

Rex chuckles, stretching a little. He’s worried about everything, tension like a sick knot in his stomach, but it’s good to see the others acting like normal. “How are you feeling?” he asks Jon.

Jon eyes him for a minute, then snorts, settling back against the wall again. He hesitates for a long moment, then carefully, deliberately presses his shoulder to Rex's and stays there.

Rex tries very hard not to feel like this is a success.

“Fine,” Jon says quietly. “You?”

“Looking forward to a chance to stretch my legs,” Rex says, keeping his voice easy. “I think it’s my turn next, right?”

The curl of Jon's mouth is rueful. “Probably,” he says, and then, “Why are they wrestling?”

Rex glances over to find that Jesse's gotten the upper hand, if only briefly. Echo has him in a headlock, but Jesse's technically sitting on him, so that’s probably Jesse winning. “Fives accused Echo of kissing a reg manual, and since he can't reach Fives he’s taking it out on Jesse.”

With a quiet snort, Jon crosses his legs under himself, hands resting on his knees. “Makes sense,” he says dryly.

“Not really,” Rex counters, amused. “Let me guess, you were an only child?”

Jon pauses, but it’s not hesitation that crosses his face, it’s uncertainty. Rex blinks, startled, but before he can ask, Jon says quietly, “I don’t know. I was a foundling. My—the woman who raised me found me somewhere in the Outer Rim and took me with her.”

That definitely doesn’t sound like the standard adoption. Rex frowns a little, but Jon's expression is sliding towards something dark, grim, and he doesn’t want to let it sink all the way there. “Favorite planet?” he asks.

Jon blinks, surprised. He looks at Rex for a moment, then huffs out a breath and says, “Dagobah. It’s in the Sluis sector. Mostly swamps and wetlands, but…” He trails off, and the smile that crosses his face isn't one Rex has seen from him before. Small, but deeply felt, with a touch of warmth that’s almost striking. “I could have stayed there forever, happily.”

“Bog planets do it for you?” Rex asks dryly. “I _knew_ there was something sketchy about you, you two-toed swamp-sucker.”

Jon laughs, that same head-ducked, half-hidden flicker of humor that Rex saw before. “Better than a desert planet,” he returns. “And it’s not—that. It just felt…good to be there. Peaceful, and easy.”

“If you say so,” Rex says, because he’s never encountered a swamp he didn’t immediately want to leave.

With a faint shrug, Jon glances at him. “Yours?” he asks. “Favorite planet, I mean.”

Rex pauses, because it’s not something he’s really considered before. None of the planets they’ve fought on feels like it should qualify, but it’s not like Rex has had much experience with the different planets in the galaxy otherwise.

“I don’t know,” he admits after a minute. “Coruscant was fun, for leave. I probably wouldn’t want to live there, though. Naboo’s pretty enough to visit, but…”

But going there would probably mean dealing with Anakin and Padmé, and Rex doesn’t hate himself _that_ much. There's only so long he can pretend that they're perfectly discrete and that no one else has picked up on things to keep his general from fretting himself into belligerent knots.

Jon makes a low, thoughtful sound. “I've never been to Naboo,” he says. “Or Coruscant. Most of my work is in the Outer Rim.”

“By choice?” Rex asks, a little wary. Not every part of the Outer Rim sympathizes with the Seps, but a large part does.

For a long moment, Jon is silent, apparently thinking it over. Then, with a tip of one shoulder, he looks away, and says, “Not a lot of other people want to be out here, so I might as well be. Since I don’t mind it.”

Not exactly a ringing endorsement of the Outer Rim as a whole, but—

“Droids,” Jon says suddenly, and Rex tenses, but Jon isn't moving. His eyes are narrowed as he watches the door, and he adds, “Not Magna Guards,” a moment later.

Rex whistles, high and sharp, and instantly Jesse and Echo are rolling upright, on their feet and ready. Fives stands, too, and Kix follows him, expression twisted between fury and concern.

Jon doesn’t move, even when Rex stands. He shakes his head at the hand Rex offers, and says, “Not a threat.”

Frowning, Rex turns to face the door as it grates open, and then pauses at the sight of three basic service droids trundling in, carrying trays. Breathes out in relief before he can stop himself, because the hunger’s been getting hard to deal with, and says, “Step back, Jesse.”

Jesse obeys with speed, and the doors to the cell open one at a time, each droid pushing a tray through and retreating to relock the cell before they move to the next one.

“Thank you,” Rex says as they push the tray into his cell. The droids ignore him completely, leaving again as quickly as they came, but Rex is hardly about to argue with the results.

“Not too much too fast,” Kix warns, even as he starts dividing the rations. “It’s been over a day.”

“And we don’t know when the next time Dooku will deign to feed us is,” Echo mutters, but he tosses a capped bottle of water to Jesse and hands over half the ration bars.

That’s a point, Rex thinks with a grimace, and offers a water to Jon.

For a moment, he almost thinks Jon isn't going to take it. There’s a long moment of hesitation before Jon reaches out, and he says quietly, “Thank you. I don’t need much, though. Set some extra aside.”

It’s a decent thought, given their situation, but it still makes Rex frown. “You're sure?” he asks, and Jon nods and settles back against the wall with his water. Doesn’t say anything else, just half-closes his eyes, breathing evening out, and—

Rex isn't sure if it’s suspicious or not. Doesn’t know how to react to something that’s just subtly off. Even so, he settles down beside Jon again, and Jon doesn’t do more than flinch slightly at the way Rex's elbow brushes his own the first time.

Maybe it’s not quite a win, but…it feels a little like one.


	7. Chapter 7

Meditation is simple.

Even without the presence of the Force, slipping into the depths of himself is a relief, and one Jon takes gladly. Rex is gone, dragged away by Magna Guards, and the other clones are talking, speaking in a dialect of Mando’a that’s likely clone-specific. Jon can hear the shift, the way some words are shortened, or phrases have their meaning changed, but as interesting as it is to track the differences, his head is buzzing, restlessness running through his blood, and the only fix for that is meditation.

Jon's known the method for as long as he’s been aware. Focuses inward, naming sensation. Bruises, burns, the chill of too-cold muscles, all felt and set aside. The worry for Fay, cataloged and accepted. The fear for Rex, acknowledged. His anger at Dooku, seen and set aside. Then, careful, he breathes, and each breath is named, until the doing of it becomes instinctive, automatic. The world slips sideways, settles, and Jon would normally sink into the Force, let himself vanish into it, but for now, this is enough.

Dark Woman always emphasized letting go, surrendering. It’s simple enough for Jon, who’s never held anything in his life, has never had one place he returns to. And that, he thinks, was part of her reason for raising him the way she did. Dark Woman gave up her name in a show of devotion to the Order’s tenants, and with Jon she took it one step further. He gave up all the trappings of a Jedi's life without ever knowing them. Gave up the history, the community, the political influence. Gave up the Temples, the companionship of other Jedi. Dark Woman raised him to be a lone soldier for the Order’s core beliefs, without anything to hold him.

It almost worked. It _mostly_ worked. But Jon is a far cry from the perfect, pious Jedi she wanted. There's a thread of darkness in him, just as there is in her. Jon has accepted that, acknowledged its usefulness, learned to mind himself a little more carefully because he always knows it’s there.

He wonders, sometimes, whether Dark Woman has learned the same.

Fay finding him in the middle of a ruined Temple, far from anywhere, a year after he left Dark Woman as a Knight, was a revelation. It was bewildering, unsettling, and Jon had thought all Jedi would be like Dark Woman, but—

They aren’t. He’s learned that over the years, no matter how scattered his contact with other Jedi is, and the relief when he thinks about it so strong it’s almost crippling.

“Jon?” Kix asks, and Jon doesn’t need to be able to feel emotion through the Force to hear the worry in his voice. Opening his eyes, he looks across the cells to find Kix watching him, frowning faintly.

“Yes?” he asks quietly.

Kix gives him a slightly wary look. “You haven’t been moving,” he says. “Are you all right?”

Saying _I'm meditating_ opens up far too many potential questions, so Jon just inclines his head. “Listening,” he says, which is true enough. Dark Woman’s favored method of meditation focuses on looking outward as much as inward, paying attention to the body and mind and one’s surroundings in equal measure.

Kix doesn’t seem overly happy with this explanation, but he nods, casting a glance towards the main door. “Have you heard anything?” he asks.

Silently, Jon shakes his head. They're far enough down that he can't make out anything from the fortress above them, and the droids have to get halfway down the stairs before he can pick up their steps. It’s frustrating, and the urge to touch the Force in order to know what’s around him is so instinctive that not being able to is almost painful. Dark Woman found him young enough, started his training early enough, that Jon can't remember a time when he was ever without the Force in some way.

The fear is stark, sharp inside of him. His meditation showed him that more than clearly enough. Jon accepts it, if grudgingly; denying it opens a path to the Dark Side, because even more than anger, fear is a door for a whole host of base, selfish emotions. He refuses to be vulnerable to them; all of his fears are dragged out into the light and savagely dissected, because that’s what Jon has always done, always known to do. Fearing that he’ll never again be able to touch the Force is the same, and Jon won't let it rule him, no matter what comes.

Given how hard he hit all of those walls while fighting Dooku, it’s likely swelling in his brain. That’s the simplest explanation, and until Fay herself tells him otherwise, that’s what Jon will fix his hopes on.

Besides, there are more important things to worry about right now.

Rising to his feet, Jon ignores the aches, ignores the pinch of pulling scabs, and paces a slow, deliberate circuit around the edges of the cell, looking for any flaws. There aren’t any that are immediately apparent, not in the force fields and not in the stone beneath them. The ceiling yields no opportunities for escape, either, and Jon eyes the door, trying to judge how much of a hold on the Force he would need to pull it right off its hinges.

More than he has right now, and that means it may as well be as impossible as stepping through stone.

“Jon?” It’s Echo asking this time, low, and his eyes are a steady weight on Jon's back. They make him itch, but—he’s not an enemy, and Jon knows that. Knows it and won't let his brain trick him into believing otherwise, even for a moment.

“The thoroughness of whoever designed these cells annoys me,” Jon says, and debates how he feels. There’s no such thing as being too sore for katas; pain doesn’t stop Jon from keeping himself ready. There is, however, the matter of Dooku to consider. Jon doesn’t want to give him any sort of idea about who he’s captured, and starting Jedi exercises would most certainly do that.

Fives snorts. “Me too,” he says, leaning back on his hands and directing a scowl at the door of the cell. “The general will find us, though. Dooku always underestimates him.”

Not enough, given that Skywalker hasn’t killed him yet, Jon thinks moodily, and wonders how Fay is doing. She hasn’t reached out to him yet, and even unable to touch the Force, Jon would be able to hear her. Maybe the whole fortress is shielded; Jon certainly hadn’t felt Dooku's presence when they were scouting.

“Not soon enough for my tastes,” he says, then lets out a breath and forces himself to stop pacing. It’s one thing to keep moving in order to prevent his muscles from locking up. It’s another entirely to stew in frustration and worry and let both emotions get the better of him.

Rex has been gone for a long while, though. A man like Dooku can do a lot in that kind of time.

“Not soon enough for any of us,” Kix says wryly, and Jesse huffs in agreement, shifting on the stone with a faint wince.

“Jon,” he says. “How did you—”

Steps.

Jon turns sharply on his heel, facing the door, and hears the clones scramble up behind him. Hears the grinding groan, and has to grit his teeth, wanting nothing more than to lash out at the first Magna Guard that marches through. One hard push with the Force to drive it sideways into the locking mechanism and all of their problems would suddenly be much easier to face. But—

But he can't, and even more than that, right now other things need his attention more.

Rex is twitching, jerking, teeth clenched to silence, as one of the Guards drags him by the collar. He can't seem to get his feet under himself, is practically _convulsing_ , and for one half-mad moment Jon calculates exactly how best to throw himself out of the cell and destroy them. The Force would help, but Jon knows how to fight bare-handed, and even if Magna Guards are built to be Jedi killers, he _needs_ to break them.

Needs to destroy them, and permanently remove their hands from Rex, who doesn’t deserve even a fraction of this.

The sweep of a dark cloak in the doorway halts him before he can try, though. Magna Guards alone Jon might risk, but with Dooku here, there's no chance of winning without the Force. Jon growls, low in his throat, but takes one deliberate step back under the weight of Dooku's stare.

“Interesting,” Dooku says, and Jon meets his gaze with every ounce of defiance he possesses. It’s plenty. Dark Woman always hated that about him. “You would kill one of the captain’s men to save him. I don’t believe he’d thank you for that, spy.”

“We would,” Fives says, bullish, and steps right up to the edge of the cell. “Why don’t you pick on someone else for a change, Dooku? Don’t you want some variety in your life?”

“I have the spy for that,” Dooku says, without looking away from Jon, and Jon tips his chin up, meeting his stare. Deliberately graceful, entirely menacing, Dooku advances, and the heel of his boot only just misses Rex's fingers on the stone. It makes Jon grit his teeth, furious in a bone-deep way he hasn’t felt in years, but he still doesn’t move. Just stands there, face to face with the greatest traitor to the Jedi in decades, and holds his stare.

“You,” Dooku says softly, “are nothing like them, spy. They are weapons, bought and paid for by a Senate that can't be bothered to fight its own wars. Mass-produced and good only for one thing. But you, I see, are a man of character and ideals.”

Jon laughs, a short, sharp bark that’s entirely unamused. “You're right,” he says, sees Fives and Kix both stiffen out of the corner of his eye but doesn’t move. “I'm nothing like them. If I was, I’d be brave enough to stand on the front lines and fight you there.” Brave enough to face his fears, to stand with the Jedi Council, and it’s a war he doesn’t believe in, a fight he doesn’t want to be part of, but—

He is what Dark Woman made him, all the twisted little pieces. His potential is to be just like her, and if the Council gave him authority, turned his eyes away from helping people with immediacy and gave him power instead, Jon is afraid he would become her. And there's nothing in all the galaxy Jon fears as much as he fears becoming the woman who trained him.

That fear, at least, is one meditation won't banish. Only marshalling himself, controlling himself, avoiding those circumstances, and that’s what Jon has spent his whole life doing at this point.

“A shame,” Dooku says, still soft, still dark. “So many good men die in wars.”

“Yeah,” Jon says, unflinching. “That’s what happens when you start them. Wild.”

“I didn’t start this war,” Dooku counters. “The idle, grasping corruption of the Galactic Senate and the blind complacency of the Jedi Order began it. I simply found a cause that suited me.”

 _What would Qui-Gon Jinn say about your choices_ , Jon almost asks, but Rex is still twitching and shaking right behind Dooku, so he holds his tongue.

After a long moment, Dooku seems to take Jon's silence as a sign that he’s won. He smiles thinly, then says, “I trust you won't try to escape if we open the door? Given the lives on the line, of course.”

He doesn’t look back at Jesse, Kix, Fives, and Echo, but he might as well.

“Not this time,” Jon says softly, and makes it just as much of a threat. Still, he takes a step back, and a moment later the Magna Guard opens the cell and shoves Rex in. He staggers, trying to catch his balance, but another muscle spasm shakes him, and Jon has to lunge to catch him. The uncontrollable jerk of Rex's muscles is too much to hang onto, and as the next one hits Jon gives up on trying, drops to his knees and lets Rex simply collapse against his chest.

“Have a good evening, gentlemen,” Dooku says, and departs with a flare of his cloak and the ring of his boots on the stairs.

Jon doesn’t even look after him. Focuses on Rex, on trapping limbs before the captain can do damage to himself, and tries not to think about how much Sith lightning was used on him, how long Dooku tortured him. Curls a hand around the back of Rex's head as he chokes out a gasp, stilling him as best he can, and closes his eyes.

Even when he can touch the Force, he isn't good at healing. Not the way Fay is. Jon's healing is meant to keep him moving, to keep him fighting. It’s unpleasant, and it hurts, and he hates using it on people other than himself, but—

Right now he would take it, and gladly. Anything to ease this.

“Didn’t—didn’t tell him,” Rex breathes, the words cracked by the way his jaw clenches, his arms spasming. “He doesn’t know. _Swear_.”

“Even if you had, nothing would be lost,” Jon says quietly. “The galaxy will survive you doing what you need to, Captain.”

There's a long, long moment as Rex shudders, then a jerking exhale as his muscles relax again. “Spy shouldn’t—say that,” he slurs, and Jon presses his fingers into the prickle of his blond buzz-cut and smiles, just faintly.

“I got caught, didn’t I?” he asks. “I think I make a terrible spy.”

One more difference from Dark Woman, and it’s one that Jon has never, ever minded.

Another spasm shakes Rex, and he groans, grinding his teeth. An elbow knocks Jon's bruised ribs, but he doesn’t allow himself to wince, just sinks back, trying to lay Rex out more comfortably. As he goes to pull away, though, Rex grabs for him, and his hand locks painfully around Jon's arm as another tremor takes him. Jon flinches hard, too many memories rising, and it takes all of his effort not to fling Rex off of him and scramble back. But—

The clones in the other cells are touching each other constantly. Jon hasn’t seen Echo and Jesse out of contact for more than a few minutes, and Fives and Kix are almost as tactile. Rex has reached out more than once, too, like he’s going to touch Jon automatically, only to abort the motion halfway through.

Touch, Jon thinks, resigned. That’s—not something he’s good with. But clearly it’s something Rex and the rest are used to, so there’s only one thing to be done.

“Easy,” he says softly, and instead of trying to shift Rex off of him, he wraps an arm around him, holding his steady to his chest. Shifts down, until he’s slumped against the wall and Rex is curled halfway in his lap, halfway around him, hands still gripping Jon's arm. Jon doesn’t ask him to let go, even though the pressure makes something twist, sick, in the pit of his stomach. Just leans over him, steady, and tries to touch as much as he can manage.

“Can you see any burns?” Kix asked, tight. He looks like he’s about to try to shove his fist through the barrier, and his eyes are fixed on Rex.

“No,” Jon says quietly. “No cratered skin, either, so I don’t think he has internal burns.”

There's a pause, and Kix shifts his gaze from Rex for one startled moment. “You know the signs of lightning burns?” he asks, surprised.

“Yes,” Jon says. Sith aren’t the only ones who can use Force lightning. “The spasms seem to be getting lighter.”

“He needs a bacta tank,” Kix says, dismayed. _Angry_ , and Jon can't even begin to blame him for it. “Sith lightning—it’s not _just_ electricity. It’s going to keep affecting him.”

“There's no way Dooku will put him in a bacta tank,” Jon says simply. Kix already knows, anyway. “But I think he held back from causing permanent damage.” The Dark Side being channeled like that leaves psychic scars, but—Jon can help with those, assuming he gets his abilities back.

“Sith lightning _always_ causes damage,” Kix says, but he’s frowning. “That’s what General Kenobi told me.”

Jon snorts. “Master Plo Koon can use Force lightning,” he says. “It’s not _just_ a Dark Side technique, though there’s little use for it beyond causing pain. The Dark Side is what leaves so many after-effects. Dooku wasn’t exactly gentle, but he didn’t go out of his way to cause more harm than normal. I think the captain will be fine.”

“For now,” Echo says quietly, grimly. Jon doesn’t react. It’s the truth, and they all know it.

“Know a lot about the Jedi,” Rex mutters against his collarbone, and his convulsion is lighter this time, the grip of his hand around Jon's arm less desperate. Jon controls the urge to jerk away, mouth dry, and focuses on the words instead.

“The woman who raised me liked to tell stories about the Jedi, from ages ago,” he says, which is true enough. Dark Woman was always full of stories about Jedi abilities from times long past, all but lost to time. Rediscovering lost Jedi tricks was her passion, and—well. She was generous in the sharing of them, at least. Even when Jon wished she wouldn’t be. “Jedi who had strange skills. Teleportation, or controlling plants, or bending the light to hide in the open. She was always looking for those kinds of tales.”

“ _Teleportation_?” Echo repeats. “How does that even work? Is it like going to hyperspace, but for beings? But—you would need so much _energy_.”

Jon shrugs, uncomfortable. He’s never really asked _why_ things work, and teleportation is one of the skills Dark Woman passed on that he hates the most. “I'm not sure. I think it’s more like folding space to erase the distance in between two points.”

“Oh, is that all?” Fives mutters. “ _Jetii_.”

Jesse snickers, even though he’s still watching Rex as well. “I think General Kenobi needs that light-bending one. Then he can just hide from General Skywalker whenever he’s on the warpath.”

“General Skywalker would cry,” Kix says dryly. “Immediately. Or he’d assume General Kenobi had been kidnapped, _again_ , and mobilize half the GAR to go find him.”

“Or run—run off on his own to find him.” Rex tightens his grip for a moment, then slowly shifts, slumping down halfway in Jon's lap. His hand finally loosens, and Jon tries not to let his relief show when it finally drops away completely. In silent thanks, he runs a hand over Rex's hair, and Rex breathes out a sigh that’s mostly relief, pressing closer. It’s a little unnerving, but Jon grits his teeth, focuses, and lets himself ease back from the edge of uncertainty. This is what Rex needs, and he can provide it. Matters are as simple as that.

“Does he do that often?” Jon asks. “Run off on his own?” He’s heard rumors about Skywalker, mostly through Nico and Nico's nephew, and they’re evenly split between glowing praise and quiet uncertainty. Anakin Skywalker is reckless and wild and too attached, some say. Anakin Skywalker is a child of prophecy, meant to bring balance to the Force, others say.

Knowing what people always said about _him_ , Jon isn't going to judge without meeting the man personally, and there’s little chance of that as things stand.

“Constantly,” Fives says dryly. “I think he’s already given the captain close to ten heart attacks.”

“Conservatively,” Rex mutters, and waits for a long, trembling spasm to pass. Breathes, heavy and exhausted, and asks Jon, “Stories?”

“Mm.” A distraction likely isn't a terrible idea. “Like the story of the most powerful Jedi in existence. She liked that one.” Which a bold-faced lie; Dark Woman never approved of Fay in the least, and when she’d heard that Jon had taken to traveling with her after his Knighting, she’d been angry. Angry enough to hunt him down and try to convince him to leave, but—Jon's always been something of a disappointment to her, and in this he was no different.

“Well?” Fives asks, impatient. “Who was she? The Master of the Order, right? When?”

“Never,” Jon says quietly. “She was one of the nomadic Jedi, wandering the Outer Rim.”

“The most powerful Jedi ever?” Echo repeats, startled. “And she just _left_?”

Jon inclines his head. “She wasn’t a warrior,” he says, and when Jesse's expression furrows, he smiles a little. Fay is always the greatest contradiction, and he loves her for it. “From the first day of her training, she never carried a lightsaber. Never built one, or even trained with one. She refused.”

“Jedi can do that?” Kix asks, frowning. “Couldn’t they just…refuse to promote her? Make her learn anyway?”

“I think you underestimate the sheer scope of her power,” Jon says, a little amused at the thought. Even if they _hadn’t_ made her a Master, that would hardly have stopped Fay. “She was so strong that the Force itself kept her alive, long after she’d lived out the lifespan of her species. When she died, in the first months of the war, she was almost five hundred years old, and still looked as young as she had when she became a Knight.”

There's a moment of silence.

“War _started_?” Rex asks, lifting his head to give Jon an incredulous look.

“Those nomadic Jedi were alive _recently_?” Jesse demands, in almost the same moment. “You said they were legends!”

“They are,” Jon says, raising a brow at him. “They almost never visited the Temples, so people thought of them as legends. But they were all still alive until the war started.”

“How did they die?” Echo asks, a faint frown on his face. “No brothers have mentioned serving with them, unless I missed it.”

“I didn’t hear anything, either,” Kix confirms.

Jon just shakes his head. “They didn’t agree with the war,” he says. “But there was a chemical weapon the Separatists were using. A gas designed to kill clones.”

Rex's breath catches, and in the same moment, Kix winces. “I heard stories,” he says. “We—a lot of the medics were still in training then, but they gassed whole armies. And General Kenobi got caught in it, too, didn’t he?”

Jon nods. “He was the one the Council chose to deal with the gas,” he says. “And the nomadic Masters joined him, because of the importance of the mission. The Council asked, so they came. And they died there, getting the antidote. For the best cause, but—Ventress and Durge killed all four of them.”

Fives grimaces, running a hand through his hair. “For the clones,” he says unhappily. “They died for us. The most powerful Jedi ever, and she just—that’s a kriffing _waste_.”

“None of them thought so,” Jon says softly. “Or they wouldn’t have been there. Jedi know the risk of such things. And they thought it was a worthwhile cause to give up their lives for.”

It was. And it would have been, even if they’d truly died. The antidote was vital, and it saved millions of lives. The fact that the mission gave them all a way to slip through the Council’s fingers, in silent protest of a war none of them wanted, was an afterthought. An important one, that let them disappear into the Outer Rim and keep helping people even when most Jedi were drawn into the fighting, but—

Jon would have died to save the clones. He wouldn’t have hesitated.

“The antidote saved a lot of lives,” Kix says quietly. “We’re all grateful for their—their sacrifice.”

Rex's breath is pained, and his fingers curl against Jon's thigh. Another spasm rocks him, makes him groan through his teeth, and Jon presses his fingers to Rex's skin, wishing he could help more.

“Easy, Captain,” he says softly. “Count as you breathe. Four seconds in, hold for seven seconds, and breathe out for eight seconds. Feel the rhythm of it, and try to keep it steady. The spasms will fade. They’re already farther apart than they were.”

“Breathing,” Rex repeats, not quite skeptical but on the edge of it.

“No, he’s right,” Kix says. “Controlling your breathing like that will lower your heart rate and help you manage the pain, Captain. And the counting helps keep your mind occupied. Just try it.”

“Match your breaths to mine,” Jon says, and slips his hand into Rex's, not wincing at the hard grip as his muscles twitch. He presses the back of Rex's hand to his chest, then closes his eyes and starts the rhythm, slow and steady. It takes a moment, but Rex picks it up, matches him. Breathes, and the tremors still shake him, but Jon can feel him relaxing more quickly after each one with something to focus on.

The hand gripping his stays tight and steady, and Jon doesn’t let go.


	8. Chapter 8

Rex comes awake slowly, which is unexpected. He _hurts_ , every muscle feeling like he just fought three campaigns back to back, with no time to rest between them, but—

He’s warm, and there’s a steady heartbeat under his ear.

A little confused, Rex lies where he is for a moment, staring into the half-dark. There's only one light on in the cell block, near the door, but in the glow that reaches the cells he can see Kix sitting up on watch, Fives stretched out with his head in Kix's lap. Jesse and Echo are curled up together in the middle of their cell, limbs tangled, and for a moment Rex just stares at them, knowing that how he woke up means something but not quite able to remember what.

Then, short and aborted, there's a twitch in the body under him.

Rex blinks, then lifts his head from where it was resting on Jon's chest. Jon's stretched out on his back, and in his sleep Rex managed to wrap around his side like a barnacle, pinning his arm and leg and leaving him functionally immobile. Even unconscious, Jon looks oddly uncomfortable; he hasn’t tried to so much as sling an arm around Rex in return, seems stiff and strangely twitchy, expression twisted up. As Rex watches, his mouth curves in a look that’s close to pain, and he tenses, turns his head away.

“Nightmares,” Kix says softly. “He’s been having them for a few hours now.”

Carefully, far more carefully than he might if he and Cody had ended up in a similar position, Rex rolls away from Jon, sliding closer to the edge of the cell so that he can keep his voice low. “You didn’t try to wake him up?” he asks, more in surprise than condemnation. Kix is a lot of things, but unobservant of people’s mental health isn't one of them.

“I did,” Kix says wryly. “The first three times. But—disturbed sleep is still better than no sleep, and I can't help him otherwise.”

Rex rubs a hand over his face, trying to drive away the dregs of unconsciousness. Thinks back, but—he was preoccupied with his own body’s betrayal, before. He can't even begin to remember Jon's reaction to being forcibly recruited as a human cuddle toy.

“I thought he didn’t like touch,” he says quietly.

Kix looks at Rex for a long moment, then flicks a glance at Jon. “I think he doesn’t know what to do with touch,” he says after a second. “That’s not quite the same thing. And—he’s had bad experiences.”

Given the way he almost crawled out of his own skin when Rex put a hand on his back, that’s pretty clear. And yet—

“He reacted like a brother,” Rex says. “When they brought me back.”

“Not quite like a brother,” Kix counters, though it’s more thoughtful than anything. “He didn’t know what you needed, at first. But when he realized, he gave it to you.”

Even though he personally didn’t enjoy it. Rex breathes out, and—he doesn’t know what to think, how to take that. A spy planted by Dooku would have helped eagerly, probably made a show of it. Played up how they were all in this together, and pushed Rex to give in and make the torture stop.

 _Even if you had, nothing would be lost. The galaxy will survive you doing what you need to, Captain_.

Suspicious words, but—

Not a push. Not an urge to give in. Comfort, in case he had, not framed in terms of the Separatists and the Republic but the galaxy as a whole. No empty promises, just the assurance that the wider universe wouldn’t end, regardless of the fallout.

True enough, Rex thinks grimly. _His_ universe might, though; the GAR doesn’t take well to clones who sell out Republic troop movements. It would be the greatest irony in the galaxy to survive this long and come this far, only to land himself a cell right next to Slick somewhere.

Jon twitches, rolls. His breath jerks in a sharp gasp, like he just got punched, and he rolls to his feet in one motion that’s almost too quick to follow, just as the door grinds open.

“ _Dooku_ ,” he says, even as Rex is still leaping to his feet, Kix rising sharply as the others come awake.

Dooku, framed by a pair of Magna Guards, appraises them for a long moment. “Captain,” he says, falsely courteous and as slimy as a swamp rat. “You're looking well. Any lingering effects?”

“A pretty severe desire to shove your head through a plate glass window,” Rex says flatly, facing him. “But I'm pretty sure it’s chronic, at this point.”

Jon snorts, shifting back slightly, until he’s not balanced like he’s about to lunge. “Chronic and infectious,” is his verdict, and Rex snorts before he can help himself.

Dooku looks them both over for a long moment, eyes narrow, and then inclines his head. “You seem to be getting along,” he says. “How fortunate.”

Something in Rex's chest goes cold. That tone means Dooku's not happy about, and he’s going to fix it in some way. Taking a step back, he opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Dooku crooks a finger. One of the Magna Guards approaches, and Dooku smiles thinly. “Choose,” he tells Rex. “One of the men. I will take them next.”

“Me,” Rex says immediately, and he still hurts but Sithing _hells_ , anything is better than having to watch Kix or Jesse or Echo or Fives get dragged away. “I’ll go with you.”

Dooku eyes, unamused. “You have five options, Captain. You yourself are not among them. Choose.”

“I’ll go!” Fives says quickly, stepping forward before Kix can get so much as a word out. “Captain, pick me, I’ll do it—”

But Rex can see the look in Dooku’s eyes, and he’s willing to bet all the credits he doesn’t have that whoever he picks won't be coming back at all.

“Me,” he says again. “Me or no one.”

“Try again,” Dooku says coldly. “Or I take two.”

The horror is a slow, creeping thing, sliding up through Rex's veins. He can't breathe, he can't swallow, he can't _think_. He can't send one of his men to be tortured, to likely be killed. He _can't_.

And then, deliberate, Jon turns, putting his back to Dooku. He meets Rex's eyes, and the set of his mouth is all grim determination. Without saying a word, he taps his chest, and—

It’s the best option. If he really is a spy who got Dooku's weapons plans, Dooku won't actually kill him. And Dooku said _five_ , so clearly he was counting Jon among them. Jon isn't under Rex's command, isn't his responsibility; he doesn’t have to carry Jon's life the way he does the men’s.

And yet.

“Well, Captain?” Dooku asks, coolly patient. Jon is still holding Rex's gaze, and there's nothing in his face but steady certainty, set and ready. Again, he points at himself, and Rex sets his jaw, closes his eyes, and breathes in through his nose.

There's no other choice. One of his men will die if he sends them out, and Dooku won't take him. Jon will make it, though. He’s valuable.

That doesn’t make it any easier to open his mouth and say, “Jon.”

The relief that flashes across Jon's expression says Rex made the right choice, and he turns to face Dooku with his chin raised, a faint smile on his thin mouth. “You heard him,” he says curtly.

Dooku is unmoved, eyes still on Rex. “I did,” he allows after a long moment, and there’s something like satisfaction curling across his expression. “Very well. Spy, come.”

Jon crosses to the door, lets one of the Magna Guards pull him out and bind his hands behind him. Rex's stomach twists, knotting like he’s about to be sick, and the aborted, desperate sound from Kix doesn’t help at all.

There's no glance back, no hesitation as Jon allows himself to be led away, though, and somehow that makes everything worse. Rex watches, and all the attempts in the world to tell himself that this is what Jon wanted, that this is the best solution, that Jon is a plant and isn't in danger, won't help the feeling that’s settling into his chest.

“Jon,” Rex says, just as they reach the doors. Swallows, and when Jon turns his head back towards him, he says, “I'm sorry.”

Jon's mouth curves, just faintly, but enough to tell that it’s a smile. “Don’t worry about it, Captain,” he says. “It’s my duty, and I volunteered.”

Dooku looks between them, and the look on his face is one Rex wishes deeply, _desperately_ that he could punch off. Smug, more than anything, like they played right into his hands, and Rex _hates him_.

“Have a good night, Captain,” he says, and the Magna Guards march Jon out and up the stairs, the door slamming shut behind them.

“ _Kriff_ ,” Rex snarls, as soon as they're gone, and spins—

“No!” Kix says sharply, and Rex halts automatically, that tone hitting something instinctive that knows to always listen to a superior officer. Kix doesn’t pull the card often, is always polite about it, but—in medical matters he outranks everyone but the actual doctors. “Don’t punch anything, Captain. If you break your hand, I can't fix it.”

Rex stares at the stone wall before him for a long, long moment, then closes his eyes, letting out a short breath. “It would make me feel better, though,” he says wryly.

“It really wouldn’t,” Kix counters, but he sounds relieved that Rex is listening to sense.

“Captain,” Echo says quietly, but bullishly. “With all due respect, _why_? Jon was already hurt, and any of us—”

“Dooku would have killed one of you,” Rex says, and sinks down to the cold stone, running a hand through his hair. Keeps his head down, his eyes closed, and—

 _It’s my duty, and I volunteered_.

Duty. Rex knows about duty. It’s one of the reasons he’s still moving. But someone who isn't even a soldier shouldn’t be able to throw around the word so easily. Jon shouldn’t say it like it’s the universe’s greatest truth, perfectly steady and certain.

He’s hurt. He’s hurt and he spent all night letting Rex cling to him, even though he hates being touched, just because Rex needed it. And then Rex turned around and handed him over to Dooku, to do whatever he wants to. It doesn’t matter that Dooku forced Rex's hand; he’s the one who made the choice in the end. And he picked letting Jon suffer over one of his men.

That knowledge sits, an immovable weight, in Rex's stomach.

“He could kill Jon, too,” Jesse says, soft. “Since he’s a spy. I'm kind of surprised he hasn’t already.”

Rex breathes through the pressure inside his chest. Leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, and buries his face in his hands.

“I know,” he says, rough. “I _know_.”

And he does. But he made his choice. And if he had to go back and make it again, he’s not sure he would choose differently.

 _Sorry, Jon_ , Rex thinks, and it’s not even close to being enough, but it’s all he has.

The first sign that something is different comes when Dooku's guards march him into a medical room, rather than a torture chamber.

“A change of plans is in order, I believe,” Dooku says, following them in. The door hisses closed behind him, and he approaches as the two droids drag Jon down onto a medical bed, then strap his arms and legs into place. “I had thought to save this for another day, but after the captain was so happy to give you up, I believe I can move forward with it.” He leans over Jon for a moment, studying him, and then asks, “Who taught you shielding, boy? A Jedi?”

Jon keeps his mouth shut. Like hell he’d ever give up another Jedi, even one like Dark Woman. She taught him better than that.

Dooku frowns. “Well,” he says after a moment, displeased. “One cannot fault your loyalty, only its direction. I have found several methods to weaken mental shielding, spy. Your secrets will not be yours for long.” A bare lightening of the frown, into something cold, and he says, “The side-effects are _most_ interesting, as well.”

Jon grits his teeth, closes his eyes. He could give Knol up, could give Fay up, because they can both protect themselves, but—

Fay saved him from himself, showed him what a Jedi _could_ be. Knol was the first person to ever be something like a friend to him. There's no way he could possibly tell Dooku about either of them.

With a whistle, a med-droid hovers closer, a hypo in its claws. Jon takes one look and it and feels something in his chest sink uncomfortably, resignation rising to match it. Drugs, then. This is going to be unpleasant.

“You won't get what you want from me,” he says quietly.

Dooku observes him for a long moment. “Perhaps not,” he allows. “But once we’re done here, I will have you dragged back to the cells and left for the good captain to deal with. The last Human this was tested on went rather mad. Do you think you’ll fare much better?”

If it’s meant to weaken a victim’s mental state until their shields crumble, probably not. Jon grits his teeth, and as the droid pulls up his sleeve and sets the hypo against his skin, he determinedly looks away.

“Yes,” he says, because after everything Dark Woman taught him, the only one who could possibly get past his shields is Fay, and she wouldn’t.

“Perhaps you will, but I doubt the captain will say the same.” Dooku watches the droid press the button, and Jon feels the shot but doesn’t flinch. “Though perhaps you won't mind so much, after he volunteered you for this.”

Jon closes his eyes, already able to feel the dizzying, dropping rush in his veins. The world spins sickeningly, and he has to breathe carefully to keep from gagging. “I volunteered myself,” he says, not about to let Dooku twist this into Rex's fault.

“It’s a shame,” Dooku says after a moment. “If I had brought a clone back to die in front of him, he might have surrendered the information I need. Now you’ve simply extended their torment.”

“None of this is my doing, or Captain Rex's,” Jon says flatly. “It’s on you. The Sith have only ever caused suffering in the galaxy. It’s good to know that hasn’t changed, even if you were a Jedi once.”

“I did what I had to,” Dooku says simply, “to destroy a decayed system that caused far more long-term suffering than any Sith would have been able to. Destruction in the short term will give way to stability and peace in the aftermath. But I do not expect a puppet of the Republic to understand.”

Jon doesn’t need to be able to touch the Force to feel the first probing push along his shields, the knife-edged cut delivered to them like a sword-stroke out of the darkness. He flinches before he can stop himself, and Dooku's expression slips towards satisfaction.

“Ah,” he says, “it’s working. Are you prepared, spy? Or would you rather give me the name of your contact and your handlers now, to spare yourself the suffering?”

Jon keeps his mouth shut, closes his eyes again. Breathes in through his nose, concentrating—

The blow against his shields is like a hammer, a grenade detonating. Jon flinches hard, and for an instant the whole world condenses into Dark Woman, grim-faced, standing over him in the darkness. Her voice is a whip-crack, a warning. _Again_ , she says, and Jon drags himself up—

Dooku retreats, but the image doesn’t fade. Jon can feel the tremble of exhaustion in his muscles, can taste blood on his tongue, can only hear her voice, cold and unyielding. _Again_ , she says. _Again, again, again_.

Jon, all of ten years old, staggers to his feet and faces her. Feels the blow against his shields again, and he’s fourteen, her hand locked tight around his arm as she drags him towards the sparring area even though he’s still battered from the last round.

_We all have a darkness within us, one we can never brush away. We can only learn to control it, like a dangerous beast kept on a chain. And you, padawan, have a very great beast inside you indeed._

Jon rises, and faces her, and knows it’s true. It always has been. Doesn’t speak, because she doesn’t want him to answer, just listen. Watches her draw her lightsaber from her belt, and—

Training. That’s all it is. Dooku cracking his shields, and Dark Woman with her lightsaber lit, casting purple shadows across her cold expression. Training, and Jon steels himself, rises, faces it.

There's nothing else to do.

Count Dooku returns, coldly and grimly furious, six hours later.

Rex hears the doors in plenty of time to react, but this time he doesn’t. Stays where he is, instead, seated with his back to the wall, even as Fives, Jesse, and Echo get to their feet. The count ignores them completely, sweeping a hand down in a sharp gesture, and the lock on Rex's cell clicks open. Rex tenses, but before he can so much as move, a familiar pair of thugs approach, a body slung between them, with an even more familiar figure behind them.

“Sing,” Rex says flatly.

“Captain,” Sing offers with a smile, and reaches out, gipping Jon's hair. He flinches hard, but she pulls his head up and says sweetly, “I hear you’ve made a friend. He’s cute.”

Not unconscious, Rex thinks with a wash of grim resignation, looking at Jon's face. But—not there, either. His eyes aren’t focusing, and his breathing is quick, panicked. The slightest motion near him makes him twitch like a hunted thing, and even though he’s perfectly silent, Rex would almost feel better if he were screaming, with that look on his face.

“What did you _do_?” he demands, coming to his feet and taking a step forward.

Instantly, Dooku raises a hand, and Jon _wrenches_. Like he just got hit with lightning, or like he was just stabbed, he hurls himself back in the Magna Guards’ grip, and Sing laughs. She wraps her arms around him, even as he tries to get away, and says, “I think you should back up, Captain. Or don’t, it’s your choice. I quite like seeing him like this. It’s always fun to watch a spy break.”

Rex grits his teeth, but retreats right up against the wall, and the Magna Guards haul Jon forward, fling him through the door. He staggers, but finds his feet, spins with his teeth bared, and Sing laughs.

“Another go?” she mocks, stepping forward. “Did I not hit you hard enough last time, sweetheart?”

“Enough,” Dooku says flatly. “As much fun as you have taunting him, Sing, I do not encourage escape attempts.”

Sing snorts, but sheathes her vibroblade along her leg. “Fine,” she says, and turns her smile on Rex. “Have fun, Captain. He’s _feisty_.”

Rex grits his teeth, dread settling against his bones. They did something to Jon, clearly, and they're expecting him to get caught in the aftermath. Alone in a cell together, with no way to put space between them, and—that doesn’t mean a lot of good things for Rex. He can protect himself, and he will if he has to, but someone drugged could be completely beyond normal limits, out of their mind. He can't deal so well with that.

“You have a transport to escort,” Dooku tells Sing coolly, turning away, and waves a hand. The lock clicks shut again, and the main door opens. Sing gives Rex one last smirk, then blows him a kiss and follows Dooku back up the stairs.

“Sithspit,” Fives mutters. “I _hate_ her.”

“Me too,” Echo says grimly. “Commander Tano should have killed her when she had the chance.”

Rex can't look at them, though. His attention is on Jon, who’s still standing where he was left, expression twisted, head ducked. Kix is watching as well, frowning worriedly, but Rex can't spare him a glance. He takes one step forward, cautious, and if Jon, who hasn’t seemed like a violent man so far, already attacked someone as dangerous as Sing—

Especially because his las memory of Rex is going to be Rex offering him up to Dooku on a silver platter.

“Jon?” he asks quietly.

For a long moment, there’s no response. Then, low, quiet, Jon lets out a ragged breath, stumbles back two steps, and slumps to the ground, curling in on himself. He stays there, perfectly unmoving, eerily silent, and Rex has no kriffing idea what to do with any of this.

“Careful, Captain,” Kix warns quietly. “If they gave him something, he’s not going to be in control of his actions.”

“A drug?” Jesse asks, startled. “You think they drugged him?”

Kix hesitates for a moment, and then says, “I think so, but—I can't tell from over here. But to have that much of a reaction, in this short a time, without physical marks? It was probably some sort of drug.”

Not that it would be easy to see any new marks past the bruises from last time, Rex thinks grimly, and takes a half-step towards Jon, sinking down on one knee so he won't be looming over him. “Jon?” he asks again.

Jon twitches, but doesn’t raise his head. Ducks down further, shoulders rounding like he’s braced for a blow, and nausea turns in Rex's stomach. This is because of _him_. Because of what he did, what he chose, and he wants to help, to do _something_ to make it better, but—what is there?

“Jon,” he says again, more firmly this time, only to stop short when Jon flinches like Rex just slapped him. Breathes in, marshals himself, and asks more softly, “Jon, are you all right? Bleeding anywhere?”

Jon lifts his head just enough to stare at him, but there's no recognition of any sort in his unnervingly pale eyes. Just something blank and terrible, ages distant, and seeing it feels like a blow to the chest.

_It’s always fun to watch a spy break._

Rex curls his hands into fists against his thighs, helpless. If he pushes, Jon might react violently, and in a cell this small, suffering the aftereffects of his own torture, Rex will be at a disadvantage.

But—

“Captain,” Kix warns softly. “It might be better to just keep your distance for a bit.”

 _I'm the reason he’s like this_ , Rex doesn’t say, even as he shifts back, gives Jon room. It doesn’t seem to matter; he still looks like he’s hurting, and nothing gets better even with the whole width of the cell between them. 

He thinks that Kix knows what he’s feeling, regardless.

It’s not often that Thire gets a night off. He’s second in command of the Coruscant Guard, and probably the only person on Coruscant who’s more stressed is Commander Fox himself, which is an achievement Thire never hoped to accomplish.

Still, despite what the shinies whisper about him, Fox is a decent guy, if probably suffering from an untreated ulcer or five. He’d seen Thire fall asleep in the breakroom for the fifth time that week and approved his leave request that same day. Thire spent most of it blissfully unconscious in the barracks, catching up on lost sleep, but he’d managed to drag himself out of bed and to 79’s for a very nice evening where he didn’t have to think about crime or people trying to bomb the Senate or senators plotting against the Republic or making idiotic requests of the Guard and then throwing tantrums when they were refused.

Really. If Thire has to hear _but I_ paid _for you_! one more time, he’s going to take up serial murder as a hobby. Sticking to senators, of course. He wouldn’t want to give the boys in Homicide any extra work. They're run ragged enough as it is.

 _Still_. It’s with a stress level about ten degrees below normal that Thire finally wanders into work, feeling at peace with most of the galaxy and mildly more prepared for whatever disaster is waiting for him. There's a _reason_ he doesn’t take much time off, after all.

At first, everything seems to be functioning well. _Suspiciously_ well, almost, except that Jek tells him offhand that Fox is in a micromanaging mood again, which probably explains it. Thire appreciates the warning, and he takes an hour to reorganize his desk and finish up the last few files he’s been working on. One of his open cases, regarding potential slavers staking out areas in Coruscant’s underbelly and setting up sales, is missing, but Fox had mentioned an interest in it, so Thire isn't particularly worried.

And then, hushed, he catches Stone’s worried, “Any word?”

Thire, elbow-deep in his urgent messages, pauses and raises his head, something like buried alarm prickling down his spine. It occurs to him, abruptly, that even though Jek said Fox has been feeling particularly obsessive these last few days, he hasn’t seen the man all morning.

“Not yet,” Thorn says, grim, and he’s in full armor, helmet tucked under his arm, rotary blaster canon slung over his back. That part is mildly alarming; Thorn loves the damn weapon, but he’s also reasonable enough to know that he shouldn’t be using it outside of an active battlefield, and _definitely_ not on Coruscant.

“Commanders!” Thire says, a hint of Fox-trained bark in his voice that makes both clones immediately snap to attention. “What’s happened?”

Stone and Thorn both spin to face him, looking caught. “Sir!” Thorn says quickly, and takes a step back that doesn’t inspire much confidence. “We were just…”

“Figuring out how to tell you, sir,” Stone finishes, like a liar. When Thire gives him a look, he winces. “Eventually.”

“Tell me what?” Thire asks, glancing between them warily.

The two trade looks, apparently trying to figure out who should tell Thire. It’s Thorn who finally takes a breath, apparently losing the silent argument, and says, “It’s Commander Fox, sir. He disappeared.”

“On a mission,” Stone adds after a moment, just as Thire is trying to figure out how to remind them that Fox practically _lives_ in the Senate Building, and probably only vanished in that he actually went back to the barracks for the first time in months. “In the lower part of the city.”

The underbelly, he means. Thire's bad feeling comes back with a vengeance. “The slaver case,” he says slowly. “ _Fox_ took it? Personally?”

“Yes, sir.” Thorn looks like he wants to wince, but won't allow himself to. “He went to investigate, and he thought he found one of the links between the slavers and a banker here on Coruscant, but.” He breaks off, swallows. “I was on the comm with him at the time. He said he heard something, and then he went off-grid. We haven’t been able to find him.”

Great. Thire takes _three days_ off of work and the most important man in the whole karking Coruscant Guard vanishes. Fox can be a nasty bastard in a fight, too, and he usually carries more weapons than any three other troopers combined. If someone outmaneuvered him, they're someone the whole Guard should be worried about.

“Stone,” Thire says sharply. “Get a squad together, meet me in the hangar in seven minutes. Thorn, find out what Fox saw that would have made him break cover. Go.”

“Yes, sir!” Both Guardsmen look entirely relieved to have orders to follow, and they hurry in opposite directions, leaving Thire to press a hand to his throbbing temple and contain a very deep, aggravated sigh.

Fox going missing is bad. Some Guardsmen will do that, play the lone agent and get results that way, but not Fox. If he heard something that made him drop cover, drop his comm, and run, it’s going to be bad. Very, very bad, probably for the Republic as a whole.

And beyond that, Fox not coming back means something _happened_ , because he would drag himself back come Sith hell or Senate tantrums otherwise, and—

Thire breathes in, breathes out. Fox took _his_ case and vanished, and that feels a little like guilt and a lot like responsibility, even beyond their friendship. And the friendship itself is…not inconsiderable. Even for a brother, Fox is a steady, bitchy, sarcastic bastard, and half of Coruscant would have been blown to hell and back already if not for him.

Whoever or whatever took Fox had better be ready to have the full force of the Coruscant Guard brought down on their heads. The Guards look after their own, and they look after Coruscant too.

Thire breathes in, thinks of the Jedi that owe him favors, and deliberately sets those thoughts aside for later. He’ll see what they're dealing with before he calls in the big guns. But—

The option’s there, and Thire's bad feeling says he’ll be resorting to it sooner rather than later.


	9. Chapter 9

When Rex wakes from a fitful sleep full of unsettled dreams, nothing has changed. If anything, it’s gotten _worse_.

Jon has tucked himself back in the furthest corner of the cell, head ducked, and he’s muttering. Hardly loud enough to be heard, but quick, a steady litany of jumbled words Rex can't quite make out. He catches _woman_ a time or two, a few planet names he recognizes, but—none of it is coherent. Not from the outside.

From a man who was laughing about stories of the most powerful Jedi, taunting Dooku to his face, to this, all because Rex couldn’t stand to let one of his brothers get hurt.

For a long moment, Rex stares at Jon, at the blank expression on his face, his closed eyes. Then, careful, he flicks a glance towards the other cells.

Kix is asleep, propped against Fives's back. Fives is the only other one awake, and he’s watching Rex thoughtfully, mobile expression set into something touched with concern. His gaze slides from Rex to Jon and back again, but he doesn’t say anything.

Rex is glad. The guilt is a knot in his stomach, tightening and growing. _It might be better to keep your distance_ , Kix said, but—

Slowly, carefully, Rex rolls to his feet, takes three steps, and then drops to one knee again, well within arm’s reach. Doesn’t think about Jon getting violent, or how he apparently attacked Aurra Sing, because it doesn’t _matter_. The expression on his face is all blankness, but there's pain to it, too. Rex can see the tightness around his mouth, the way he’s holding himself like he’s braced for a blow.

Wherever he’s gone to in his head, it’s not a happy place.

“Jon,” he says softly, but there’s no reaction. Not so much as a flicker of awareness, and Rex breathes in, breathes out. Forces himself not to reach out, but says, “I'm going to sit next to you again, all right? If you don’t want me to, that’s fine. I can move. But…”

But. Rex needs to do _something_ , because just sitting here watching someone suffer for _Rex's choices_ aches like a vibroblade to the chest, and Rex can't take it anymore. He just wants to help. Just wants to do _something_ to make it easier for Jon, because he couldn’t prevent this. Because he wouldn’t.

The clones need to have each other’s backs, because other than the Jedi no one else will bother. Rex has always lived by that idea. But—

This is the first time he’s had to face the consequences so starkly, and he hates it.

Slowly, carefully, he shifts, settling next to Jon and putting his back to the wall. Doesn’t consider all the disadvantages the position puts him at, if Jon does attack him, but lets himself breathe there for a moment. There's still no reaction from Jon, but Rex can hear him whispering now, listing…names, it sounds like. At least one Hutt among them, and Rex has to frown. Listens, for another minute, and—

Criminals. He only recognizes a handful of names, but they’re all criminals of one sort or another, and Rex is willing to guess all the others are, too. Outer Rim scum, mostly, a bounty hunter or two, a pirate Rex knows makes a living capturing settlers to sell as slaves. Some of the worst people in the galaxy, and Jon knows them all. Knows more than Rex has ever wanted to, by the sound of it.

“Keeping a hit list?” he asks, light, but the joke falls flat when Jon doesn’t react. With a grimace, Rex tips his head back against the wall and takes a breath, trying to think of all the reasons for Jon to have a list like that, apparently memorized, apparently familiar. Maybe it’s for show, and he’s a plant, but—

Somehow, Rex can't bring himself to believe that right now, in the face of this.

“That’s a lot of names,” he says instead, soft. “You spying on all of them, too?” No reaction, and he grimaces. Hesitates, for a long moment, and then leans sideways just a little, practically holding his breath.

Their shoulders brush.

The reaction is immediate. Jon wrenches sideways like Rex stabbed him, almost falls into the barrier. With a curse, Rex lunges to grab him before he can, grabs his wrist and hauls him up, feels muscles go tense and braces himself for the blow—

His hand slips from sleeve to skin, and Jon makes a sharp, almost _gutted_ sound.

Instantly, all the fight goes out of him. He practically collapses into Rex, cold hands desperately seeking skin. Rex jolts, unprepared for the motion, and hits the wall of the cell, grabbing at Jon for balance. There's a sharp flinch, a jerk, but Jon doesn’t let go. One hand stays curled around Rex's wrist, the other pressed against his side, and Jon's head drops against his shoulder for a long, long moment.

Mildly in shock, Rex blinks down at the dark head resting on his chest, then lifts his gaze. Fives is wide-eyed in the other cell, but when Rex looks at him he offers a tentative thumbs up, and Rex rolls his eyes. Carefully, slowly, he raises an arm, and when it doesn’t get him a reaction, he drapes it around Jon's shoulders, letting his thumb brush skin.

There's no flinch. Just a breath, ragged and worn, and Jon slumps against him like his strings have been cut, all relief.

Well. Rex can imagine that skin contact means a lot, after dealing with Dooku and Aurra Sing. He slowly, carefully strokes at the skin of Jon's collarbone, avoiding a thick rope of scar tissue that disappears under the neck of his shirt, and lets his other hand go to Jon's head. His hair is shaggy, less in a way that’s meant to be fashionable and more like he hasn’t bothered to cut it in a little too long, and Rex runs his fingers through it like he would with another clone, feeling the tense weight ease with a desperate, bone-deep shudder. Jon relaxes against him, face pressed against Rex's chest, and Rex realizes with a start that Jon is listening to his heartbeat. Grounding himself with it, maybe. It makes Rex swallow, rough, because Jon has consciously avoided every other touch, but this—

This is instinctive. An animal sort of need for comfort found in another person, and something Jon would likely deny himself if he were in his right mind.

The list of names has entirely stopped, and Rex can't help but feel relief at that.

“I'm sorry,” Rex whispers, brushing a little of the hair back from his face. Means it, desperately, but still has no idea what else he could have done in the situation. Feels, sickly certain, that he’ll get the chance to try it again, if Dooku has a say. There's no way he’ll miss the effect this had, and _not_ try it again when it’s worked so well for him.

If Jon hears his words, there’s no sign. He doesn’t move, though, just curls against Rex's chest a little more tightly, and Rex wraps his arm around him, slides his fingers through his hair—

Smears something pale-colored across the dark strands, and stills.

There's something on his fingers. Just a bit, but—Rex touches it, then looks down at Jon's face, a dark sort of suspicion rising.

Jon is taller than him, and Rex has never had occasion to look down at his face before. It’s a new angle, and in the harsh lights from above, Rex can suddenly see a ridge that shouldn’t be there. Slowly, carefully, not wanting to disturb Jon, he brushes his thumb over it, smears what looks like makeup, and—

A scar. Not a small one, either, but a long thin thing that twists down Jon's cheek and looks like it was only vaguely treated when it happened. Another crosses it, and Rex follows that one with his fingertip as well, down to where it disappears under Jon's jaw. There are more, too, now that he’s looking, and Rex finds one, another, keeps _seeing_ them as horror curls dark and grim through his veins.

Jon was tortured. Not just this time, but—before. _Severely_. All the flinches, all the twitches, the way he doesn’t like human contact—that says it’s happened before, to the point that he expects pain when people touch him before anything else. And this time, going in, he had enough warning that he covered the scars from previous times, hid them under a layer of some kind of concealer. _Knew_ that he might get caught and tortured again, but didn’t want to give away that it had happened before.

He thinks, again, of the scars on Jon's hands. Not, this time, like he punched a window, but as something that was _done_ to him, and feels sick. Breathes out, low and harsh, and tightens his arm around Jon's back. Pulls him up, just a little, and leans down to rest his forehead against the curve of Jon's skull. Around his side, Jon's hand curls, and—

He’s not gripping. Not holding. Even like this, he’s not grabbing Rex. If he wanted to, Rex could pull away easily, and somehow that just makes things _worse_. Closing his eyes, Rex tightens his grip just a little, slides his hand down to curl over the back on Jon's neck, and holds him there, close and careful. Breathes, ragged, and thinks about apologizing again, but Jon won't hear it. Not yet.

Rex can wait to say it until he will.

After so much Darkness, there’s finally Light.

Jon isn't drowning in other people’s hate and anger, and the realization is a shock, so bewildering he can hardly make sense to it at first. There _was_ darkness, the shadows of malicious rage and tangled fury, a desire to hurt that turned Jon's stomach. It was all he could feel as Dooku stripped away his shields, and yet—

It’s gone. There's no trace of it left, and instead, sun-warm concern and cautious, desperate care fill his senses.

Jon turns to the feelings, wants to bury himself in them. That brightness is like the warmth of a fire, and beneath it there’s a knife-edged, raging sort of protectiveness that settles across his skin. A pool of steady courage, the heat of conviction and righteous anger, and Jon knows all those things in bits and pieces. Fay, Knol, and Nico, he thinks, but—that’s not right. There's only one heartbeat under his ear, and he can't sense any minds beyond the one.

Still. There's another person here in the darkness with him, and he’s grateful.

“Easy,” a quiet voice says, but Jon can hardly bring himself to register it at this point, caught in the edges of that warm-bright mind. “You're all right, Jon.”

He is. He always is. But—the memories of Dark Woman that were so close are fading, retreating. Jon can breathe without seeing her, can think without feeling the beating pulse of her Dark-edged presence again against his mind. There’s no Dooku, either, chipping away at his barriers. Jon's made himself functional, over the years, but—if someone digs into his head, starts pulling out pieces the way Dooku wants to do, there won't be enough of him left to hold together. All the work Fay did, dragging him back from the edges of self-destruction when he was a teenager, will be for nothing.

Dooku is gone, though. His absence is like the removal of a tumor, and Jon can't sense him anywhere. Can't sense much of anything except the mind close to him, but that’s fine. Dooku's absence is all he needs or wants, and there's a warmth in his bones like he’s been lying in the sun for hours.

Soft, gentle, a thumb strokes the nape of his neck, and Jon breathes out, sinking into the touch. Strange, but—it feels good. There's no pain, no edge of threat. Just quiet concern, wrapped up with something protective.

A heart beats in Jon's ears, slow, steady. Rhythmic counterpoint to the mind that turns with thoughts, just beyond the edge of what Jon can grasp. He sees the outlines, the way emotion flows from one thing to another, and it’s—gentle. Not Dooku hammering away at his shields, hitting him with pure Force and pure evil, trying to wear Jon away like a stone in a river. Just—kind.

He curls his fingers into rough fabric and thinks of waking up with Fay leaning over him, a strange Jedi with a galaxy of power threaded through her veins. For the first time in his life, a face above him hadn’t meant _threat_ , but—

Like this, it was kindness. Care. She’d helped, because she’d needed to, and this is the same.

“Awake?” that low voice asks, and the thumb on his nape presses in, just enough pressure to feel. Jon doesn’t want it to lift, and it doesn’t; the whole hand curls a little more tightly around the curve of his shoulder, fingers distinct points of contact against his skin. Callused fingers—from a blaster, Jon thinks groggily, and breathes out, pressing more closely into the warmth beneath him. Dooku didn’t get through his shields, but—he fractured them. left thin, hairline cracks, spreading outward like spiderwebs, and Jon had thought that they were just going to fall apart. Duty was all he could cling to, in the aftermath. Just like when Dark Woman first sent him out into the galaxy, a tangle of instincts and the knowledge of what he had to do, in the days before he met Fay, he clung to the names, to the tasks.

There are criminals who still need to be brought to justice, people who still need someone to win them freedom. Jon's duty hasn’t been fulfilled, and that means he can't stop, no matter what. That will always be enough to keep him moving.

“Mm,” he manages, still not willing to open his eyes. When the hand on his back curls, stroking lightly, he sighs and turns his head, feels a low chuckle more than hears it. His shields are firming, the peace giving him space to patch the cracks and shore up the walls, and it feels like healing, like an easing. The heartbeat is an anchor, a ballast; Jon feels steadier with it in his ears, with the mind he can wrap himself around, so bright and brave.

“Well, that’s more than I got out of you before.” A hand brushes through his hair, a thumb stroking his cheek, and Jon shivers, turns his face into it before he can stop himself. He can't remember if he’s ever been touched like this. It’s—not objectionable at all.

“Dooku,” he manages, because that’s important. “He didn’t—”

Can't find the words to finish. They get lost in the way the arm around his back slides down, a hand hooking over his hip. On the edge of too tight, and Jon twitches before he can help himself. Instantly, the grip eases, and Jon breathes out on a sigh of relief, feels those fingers stroke his hair again.

“Sorry. No grabbing,” the voice says, then pauses. There's a long, slow breath, and then, “I have it on good authority that even if Dooku had gotten something from you, nothing’s lost. You're all right, Jon.”

Rex, Jon thinks, like a start, and opens his eyes. Realizes, abruptly, that he’s practically curled in Rex's lap, twitches as he starts to move—

“I'm not going to grab you,” Rex says softly, and the arm around Jon's back isn't shifting, isn't tightening. “but you don’t have to get up on my account.”

Jon stills, feeling caught. He doesn’t _want_ to move; Rex is warm, his mind is close and bright, and for the first time since the fight in the base Jon can feel someone else’s presence. After so long without the Force, it feels like finally being able to see again, and he doesn’t want to let go and potentially lose it. And—

The hand in his hair is so light, so careful, that it makes something burn in Jon's chest.

“Sorry,” he says hoarsely, but lets his muscles ease, lets himself slump down into Rex's hold again. Shivers when fingertips graze the back of his neck, and feels the soft huff that Rex gives in response.

“Don’t be,” Rex says softly. “I'm the one who picked you for that.”

Jon grimaces. Doesn’t want to think about Dooku, but— “He was going to kill one of your men,” he says. “Bring him back to die in front of you. Made the right choice.”

Rex's breath shakes, and his arm shifts. Jon's expecting it this time, can control his flinch as it pulls tight, and beyond that, Rex's forehead drops against his own and that’s distraction enough. Opening his eyes, Jon looks up into his face, seeing the pain there, the conflict, and lets the hand on Rex's waist slide around, holding him as best he can. Rex swallows hard, and says, almost soundless, “Thank you. For saving them.”

Jon turns his head, closes his eyes again. Hears that heartbeat, loud and steady, and thinks of all the people in the galaxy that still need saving. Thinks of Rex and his men, and of battlefields, and of wars.

For years now he’s been so certain that they did the right thing in avoiding the war. There are so many people in the Outer Rim that the Council will never know of, that the Republic as a whole will never care about. It had felt right, when the Council called Nico, Knol, and Fay for the Queyta mission, and they’d called on him, hatched a plan to fake their own deaths. Jon had known that he would be tapped soon, that all of them would end up generals, that this war was pointless and _wrong_ and that playing a part in it would be equally wrong. But—

How many clones have died, fighting it? How many could Jon have saved? How many like Rex, with nothing less than sheer kindness for a stranger, have been killed when the addition of one Jedi, one man, would have saved them?

He isn't sure, but he knows he’ll never be able to stop asking himself now that he’s thought of it.

 _I haven’t saved you yet_ , he thinks, and feels the beat beat beat of Rex's heart, the warmth of his care pressed up against his own mind. _But—_

He wants to.

Fay sits cross-legged in the center of the road, eyes closed, hands resting on her knees. Waiting, technically, but also looking. Breathing in the weight and flow of the Force around her, covering the planet, connecting everything, and—

She can't feel Hardcase’s squad anywhere.

It’s strange, unsettling. Jon hiding himself from her isn't an unusual thing, isn't alarming, but clones shouldn’t be able to. Unless they're all Force Nulls, she should be able to feel them, find them. Five men in distress, trained soldiers thinking of this as enemy territory, would stand out against all the other minds close by. They can't have been taken off-world, either; Hardcase is absolutely certain there wasn’t time for that, and Fay can sense that he’s telling the truth.

And yet, despite her range, despite her gifts, Fay can't feel a single one of them in the Force.

In light of that, perhaps the fact that she can't feel Jon, that he hasn’t found her yet, is a reason to worry as well.

A little grim, she reaches out, brushes Hardcase’s mind. There's the mental equivalent of a startled jump, then a brush of reassurance, quick and effervescent, and Fay can't help but smile. She _likes_ the feel of his mind, constantly flickering from one thought to another like the reflections of light on moving water; after so many centuries, it’s still a wonder to touch a unique mind, to feel the slant of thoughts so different from her own.

Once, a very long time ago, Fay's Master told her that a Jedi's ability to feel minds and manipulate thoughts was a manifestation of their place in the weave of the galaxy. The Force connects all things, and a Jedi is spun of that thread, a living connection between all other beings. Fay has never been quite sure whether she believes it, but—maybe a part of her has always loved the idea. Maybe a part of her has always wanted to be, and that’s one reason she refuses to cut any living being from the web.

The Jedi keep the peace, through force when they must. Kill, if they're pushed to it. But Fay is a Healer. If the Force wanted her to kill, it wouldn’t have given her power over life.

Battle droids have no presence in the Force. Whatever arguments can be made for sentience, they aren’t the same as beings, don’t have minds in the same way. Fay hears the rattle of a transport approaching and keeps her eyes closed, breathes in, out, in. Feels the ebb and flow of the Force, and gathers it, spins it around herself like a shroud of silk and listens as the droids march closer. No minds to wipe, here, no thoughts touch, and Fay passes over them with a dismissive brush—

There. One mind, half-hidden behind shields that are Jedi-trained, watchful and waiting like a spider in its web. Fay doesn’t let herself frown, but the thought is there, even as the transport rattles to a halt in front of her. There's a clatter, and then one of the droids on top of it says, “Hey, lady, you're blocking the road.”

“Am I?” Fay asks, still feeling out that foreign mind. Not Jon; there are threads of Darkness to him, but this is _wholly_ Darkness, vicious and angry and lashing out, inflicting it on everyone else so it doesn’t have to be turned inward. As she feels out the edges of it, it stirs, a spider when one strand of its web is plucked, and Fay opens her eyes, grimly satisfied.

 _I have you_ , she thinks.

“Er. Yeah you are,” the droid says. “Look, lady, we’re on a schedule. If you don’t move, we’ll have to make you.”

“Make me,” Fay repeats, amused, and raises her head. Eyes the droids, the blasters, the cannons, and smiles. Slowly, deliberately, she rises to her feet, reaches out to Hardcase, and sends him a flicker of warning. “And how, precisely, would you make me?”

“How? Er. Like this.” The droid raises its blaster, aiming at her, and in quick succession the droids on the other three transports do as well. “Blast her!”

Fay's never carried a lightsaber. She’s never needed to. With a lift of her hand, she touches the Force, and stops every last blaster bolt in midair.

“Well, _that_ won't work,” she says, and flicks her fingers. The bolts reverse, and with a clatter of shots and the droids’ cries they hit the transports, throwing up a spray of dust and shards of metal. At least one droid goes down, and Fay brings her hand up, narrows her eyes, breathes. Focuses—

A transport shudders, jerks, _rises_. It sails upwards, then crashes back down on top of two others, and explodes in a ball of flames and a spray of parts. On the rearmost transports, a droid cries, “Comm for backup, there’s a _Jedi_ —”

The explosion is sign enough of her presence. Fay curls her hand into a fist, and droid and transport alike crumple in on themselves with a grinding _crunch_.

In the same moment, the mind in the distance reacts, one brief flare of fury and intent. It’s warning enough; Fay turns, and the blaster bolt buries itself in the ground at her feet instead of in her skull. A second skims her side, but the wound closes instantly, and Fay takes a step. Touches that mind, closing mental fingers around it, and orders with all her will behind it, “Come out, girl.”

There's a brief, fierce struggle, but Fay has been a Jedi for five centuries, has lived through plagues and wars and all the terrible things that sentients do to each other, has seen them firsthand, healed them, comforted people through them. Walked in the darkness and emerged in the light, untainted by it.

It’s not even a question that she’s going to win, and she does.

The sight of a young Palliduvan woman stumbling out of the trees is a mild surprise, but hardly one Fay would let unsettle her. She watches, cold, as Aurra Sing stumbles and falls to her knees in front of her, gasping, hands trembling. She’s straining against Fay's control, struggling desperately, but Fay's grip is unyielding.

“Aurra Sing,” she says. “You’ve come a long way since your time as Dark Woman’s padawan.”

Aurra snarls, fingers digging into the grass beneath her. “ _Jedi_ ,” she spits. “How?”

“How am I controlling you? Simple. You are nothing but an untrained child, drowning in her own bile.” Fay studies her for a long moment, tangling her fingers in Aurra’s mind, feeling out the edged of her fury. Sees, just for a moment, the image of a clone on his knees, chin raised, eyes steady, and Aurra pulling the trigger.

Sees, all too clearly, the way Aurra dumped his body into space like nothing about him mattered. How she tried to make a child take the shot, and mocked him when he didn’t.

“The Dark Side has consumed you,” she says steadily. Plucks, gently, at the threads of memory, and when she finds a frayed end, she starts to pull. “How sad, to see one who used to be a Jedi reduced to this.”

Aurra hisses, struggling, but Fay drives her down into the dirt, starts to pull more quickly. Takes, carefully but without pause, until the very edges of Aurra’s self are starting to unravel. “Dark Woman was a _monster_!” Aurra snarls. “She sold me to pirates! She was _vile_!”

“She is absolutely a monster,” Fay agrees without hesitation, and thinks of Jon as she first found him. A teenager, lost, desperate, _broken_ , but trying so hard to be a good man—Fay had taken one look at him and _known_ that she would do whatever she needed to in order to help him. “That doesn’t mean you had to become one, too.”

“I didn’t—have a _choice_ —”

“There is always a choice,” Fay says softly, and it’s the one truth she’ll always hold above all others. “I'm going to give you the chance to make another one. Not that you’ll remember.”

Aurra shrieks, but Fay _wrenches_ , and every last thread of memory and name comes loose. The woman who was Aurra Sing crumples into the dirt, moaning desperately, and Fay closes her eyes. Lets the memories settle, Aurra’s life alongside her own for just a moment, and then breathes out everything that she was.

“Dark Woman might be a monster, but she never sold you to pirates,” she says after a long moment, and crouches down, turning the woman over onto her back. Raises a hand, and all of her weapons except a vibroblade whirl up and away, landing in the burning transports. “For all her many sins, that wasn’t one of them. You were lied to.”

It doesn’t matter anymore. Aurra Sing has ceased to exist, and all of her trials and pains with her. Whoever she becomes now, hopefully it will be someone better.

“You are a blank slate. I hope the world is kinder when it writes your tale this time around,” Fay says, not without sympathy and brushes the woman’s hair back from her face, then rises. Rather than leaving her where droids might find her, Fay shifts her off the path, settles her safely away from the road, and leaves her there. Turning away, she pulls her hood up, and keeps moving.

Hardcase is waiting for her, and they have work to do. Aurra Sing is gone, and that’s one more bit of Darkness erased from the world. One shadow from his past that Jon no longer has to face.

Fay lets Aurra’s memories go and doesn’t mourn her. She had a chance, she had a choice.

She’ll make better ones, this time.


	10. Chapter 10

“Fay said Jon had been _captured_?” Nico asks, alarmed.

Knol scoffs, not even looking up from her holonet search. “Like any planet in the Outer Rim can hold that drifter if he wants to get out,” she says, and waves a hand. “I'm sure he’s fine, Nico.”

Uncertainty is a curl of unsettled tension in Nico's chest, and he doesn’t answer. Knol sometimes overestimates people, and underestimates the impact of pain; she’s a strong person herself, bowls through trauma with both fists raised and ready to swing, but—not everyone reacts the same way.

Nico knows all too well how Jon reacted in the aftermath of Queyta, and he has his own suspicions about how far Jon will go _not_ to use the abilities that An’ya ingrained in him.

Last time, for Queyta, he had agreed to do it, but Jon has always had ideas about right and wrong and debts owed, no matter how often Nico has tried to tell him that they don’t exist. They're all relatively solitary, especially compared to Temple Jedi, Nico is unhappily certain that that has a great amount to do with it, as well. An’ya instilled a disbelief in Jon, a certainty that the Temples wouldn’t welcome him, so Jon gravitates towards Nico, Fay, and Knol, sees himself as an outsider for all that he’s always been a Jedi. It breeds loyalty, breeds reliance, and Nico is absolutely certain that it was meant to be a loyalty to An’ya’s ideals, to her view of the Order. To her, in a way, though Nico doubts she would have ever framed it in those terms.

For all her many, many flaws, An’ya is a devoted Jedi. She believes in the structure of the Temples, in the duty of the Knights and Masters. But she’s ruthlessly practical, too; a Jedi who exists at the very edges of the Order is useful, valuable. Jon, Nico is sure, was meant to be her loose cannon, her weapon to be aimed at all the problems the Jedi couldn’t address directly. And perhaps, given his own status, Nico should be more sympathetic to her aims, but—

He’s seen the affect of it on Jon. Has seen what she turned her most promising padawan into, in the name of training and strength, and he wouldn’t wish the same fate on his enemies, let alone a fellow Jedi.

“I can _feel_ you fretting, Nico,” Knol says impatiently. “Lay off. Antilles has Fay with him. She’s like a mother nexu over that idiot, he’ll be fine.”

Nico sighs, allowing that that’s true. Fay is fond of Jon, protective of him given how they met. Nico has never asked directly, but it must have been traumatic, given the break in Fay's usual aloofness. Before Jon, Nico had been able to count the number of times he’d met her on one hand, even working solely in the Outer Rim. Afterwards, she was practically a common sight, and Nico is entirely certain it isn't just a coincidence.

“Anything on Durd?” he asks instead of dwelling, because Knol will mock him viciously for any hint of sentiment. She’s a terrible friend.

“He’s on Coruscant,” Knol says, wrinkling her nose. “The Trade Federation bargained for an early release from prison after he was captured on Maridun, on the grounds that no one could prove he was working for the Sepratists as anything but an inventor.”

A lot of credits must have changed hands, to get that decision through. Nico grimaces, but says, “At least that will make him easy to find.”

Knol's grin is all teeth. “Yeah. Especially if we can convince our friend here to help us get through security in a few places.”

Nico hums, faintly doubtful, but lifts his hand from the forehead of the clone commander. CC-1010 is still deeply unconscious, but given the state of his mind, that’s likely for the better. Nico's spent the last few hours straight through patching up bits of thoughts, rooting out buried memories, carving out implanted commands, and the state of CC-1010’s mind is still frightful, but…less so. Easier to bear, now, when Nico looks at him.

Before, he had been a cratered wasteland in the form of a man, primed to do terrible things with a word. Now, at least, he is more man than control, and Nico will take it.

“It will be a while yet before he’s well enough for that,” he warns, and whatever Sith had him was clever about hiding their face, concealing themselves even as they played CC-1010 as a puppet. Nico hasn’t caught more than a glimpse of them in the clone’s memories, and there's no way that’s not deliberate. A little more assurance that, even if a Jedi were to dig into CC-1010’s memories despite most Jedi being _far_ too polite, they wouldn’t find anything of value or substance. They might not even notice the damage if they weren’t trying to control CC-1010, and a Jedi wouldn’t.

Knol hums, finally looking up from her datapad and setting it aside, search still running. “Think he’ll remember who was playing with his head?” she asks, cocking her head, and reaches up to start teasing knots out of her mane.

Nico pauses, then grimaces. “There's no saying,” he answers after a moment. “Sometimes the mind is a surprising thing.”

Knol looks less than pleased at that, but she sighs and allows it. “If we pick a fight with someone high-up in the food chain, on Coruscant, we’re going to blow our cover,” she says. “We’re already walking the line of Grey Jedi as it is.”

Nico curls his lip, disdainful. He has nothing but contempt for those who dabble with the Dark Side and claim to only do it to help others. There have been too many Jedi over the years who have tried to walk that border between selflessness and the darker emotions and failed, harming innocents as they fell. The Dark Side leads only to suffering, and those who call themselves Grey Jedi are simply trying to justify their own moral failings.

“If the Council was going to expel us, they would have already,” he says. “Years ago. You know that just as well as I do.”

With a laugh, Knol leans back in her chair, crossing her legs beneath herself, and her grin is a lazy, lethal thing. She’s had more than her fair share of arguments with the Council over the years about appropriateness and diplomacy and the right way to do things, and while Nico wasn’t present for any of them, he can't imagine they ended well for the Council, given that expression.

“We made Master on our own, without ever taking padawans,” she says. “The worst they could do would be to kick us back down to Knighthood, and they're not about to do that.”

Nico would argue on the grounds that he _has_ had padawans, but since he gained them after he became a Master, he lets her point stand. “If there is a Sith Lord on Coruscant,” he counters, “it’s our duty to get rid of him. Regardless of the cost to ourselves.”

Knol rolls her eyes. “Of course it is. I'm not about to say otherwise. But we’d better be damned sure we can win.”

Nico breathes in, out. She’s right. They need to be sure they’ll defeat the Sith, sure that they can prove the Sith's identity, especially if they’re someone of a high rank. Outing a Sith is the best way to destroy them, but doing it won't be simple.

Still. At the very least he and Knol are in a better position to investigate than the rest of the Order, since everyone thinks they're dead. Jon and Fay would be helpful, given their abilities, but—Fay hasn’t been to Coruscant in almost two hundred years, and Jon's never set foot on the planet at all. Nico and Knol know it well enough, and the two of them can manage for now.

“Tae’s too busy to help, right?” Knol asks, thoughtful. “It might be useful to have someone inside the Temple, though.”

“Tae is about to be deployed,” Nico says quietly, and accepts the worry that rises, accepts the resigned horror, the anger, the bitterness. Breathes them out, long and slow, and closes his eyes. “I’m afraid he must focus on himself and his troops, rather than splitting his attention.”

Knol grunts, displeased. “Troops,” she mutters, and her fur ripples. “Like Jedi were ever supposed to be farkled _generals_ in some big war. Master Yoda should have put his foot down and refused.”

“Should he?” Nico asks quietly, because as much as he hates his nephew and padawan being sent to an active front, Tae was _most_ insistent that he was helping the civilians suffering under the Separatist invasion. Nico can't even say he’s wrong; there are millions of innocents in this war, and the Jedi are trying to do their duty and save them.

Nico refuses to be a participant in the enslavement of cloned men into an army, refuses to take part in the lesser of evils because it’s still evil, but he understands intellectually why Yoda gave in when the Senate ordered the Jedi into service as generals. He was trying to save lives, and he likely has.

It’s the methods that Nico hates, and won't be a part of.

Before Knol can answer, there's a stir on the bed, and CC-1010 grimaces deeply. He twists, curling like he’s going to bury his face in the pillow, and then freezes, breath catching audibly. Nico and Knol both wince at the spike of his panic, and Nico raises a hand.

“Peace, Commander,” he says. “You are unbound, unharmed. We simply wanted to get out of sight before we were seen by more…unsavory characters.”

“Like you?” the commander rasps, and opens his eyes. They flicker from Nico to Knol, narrowing, and he sits up. Doesn’t check his hidden holster for his blaster, or his boot for the vibroblade Knol found and promptly cooed over, but watches them both warily, braced to move.

Knol laughs, leaning forward to drop her elbows on her knees and resting her cheek against one hand. “If you think we’re the worst thing in Coruscant’s underbelly, you haven’t been down here _nearly_ enough,” she teases, and Nico sighs through his nose, more than able to recognize when she’s picked a new target. It’s usually Jon, because she once dragged him out of a nest of Dark Side users when he got in over his head as a new Knight and hasn’t let it go since, but—Knol isn't happy unless she has someone to poke at.

“You overheard an incomplete conversation,” Nico says, giving Knol a narrow look that makes her roll her eyes. “I'm afraid you may have misconstrued certain facts regarding our intentions.”

The commander looks between them, and the thin, thready pulse of his fear is almost entirely buried by the weight of his anger, his offense. He’s calculating, furious, with an edge of protectiveness that’s vast in its scope.

If there were ever any who could understand the mission of the Jedi, Nico thinks sadly, and their care for the galaxy with all its inhabitants, it would be the clone troopers. Like the Jedi, they know of little but duty, and it’s shaped them into something very similar. But the Jedi are free to walk away from their fate, and the clones are not, and as long as that remains the case Nico will never, ever bow his head to the Republic or the Supreme Chancellor who ordered the use of the clone army.

“Certain facts?” the commander echoes, incredulous. “You're planning to buy weapons for the Separatists!”

“One weapon,” Knol corrects, smirking, and her fur ripples. Enjoyment, Nico thinks, and wants to roll his eyes. Of course she’d be having fun with this. “Biological, invented by a Neimoidian named Lok Durd.”

CC-1010’s expression doesn’t change, but Nico can feel the sudden, attentive edge that cuts through his thoughts, the pieces slide into place. _Defoliator_ , he thinks, and the image of a report rises, slides away, is replaced by assessment. Calculations of what the weapon will do if released on Coruscant, likely targets, potential methods of release—

And then a pause, startled, uncertain. Nico watches his face change, the frown that curls his mouth for an instant before it’s hidden, full of consternation.

“What you're feeling is natural,” Nico says quietly, and at the man’s sharp glance he inclines his head, then meets his eyes. “Your mind is clearer now, more capable. The presence within it left you unstable, most of your energy devoted to surviving and thinking however it let you. You feel better, yes?”

There's a long, long moment of silence as the commander watches him. Then, careful, he says, “Certain drugs would have the same effect.”

“They would,” Nico allows. “But not long-term. The clear-headedness will remain. Provided you avoid any more Sith Lords.”

“Avoid _what_?” the man demands, startled. Looks from Nico to Knol again, eyes going wide, and demands, “You're _Jedi_?”

Knol laughs. “Look at that, he’s getting it!” she says, and shifts, letting her coat fall back to show the lightsaber at her hip. “We’re on your side, Commander, just deeper underground than most. And there's a Neimoidian somewhere on Coruscant who sold a bioweapon to the Seps and then decided to live it up. I figure you're a Guardsman, we’re Jedi, and between the three of us we can put him out of work _permanently_. What do you say?”

The commander stares at her, bewildered. Pauses, then groans, pressing a hand to his head. “You're _insane_ ,” he says. “What Sith Lord? You're _Jedi_? But you _kidnapped_ me—”

“Abducted for a morally sound reason,” Nico counters, mild. “I object to calling you by your identification number unless that is truly what you prefer. Have you chosen a name for yourself?”

The commander gives him a look that’s torn between betrayal and disbelief. There's an edge of _I expected that from the crazy Bothan but not from the guy who looks like a kriffing **Senator**_ that makes Nico very carefully not look smug. It’s a reaction he’s gotten from plenty of people over the years, and it’s always satisfying.

“Fox,” the commander finally says. “I'm Fox. Who the kriff are you?”

Knol smirks, tossing her mane back. “Masters Knol Ven’nari and Nico Diath,” she says. “We’re your new best friends, and _you're_ going to help us find a Sep inventor and a Sith Lord, Fox. Nice to meet you.”

Cody's had some bad nights, over the years, and Rex has been there for most of them. it’s one of the perks of being assigned to generals who seem physically incapable of being apart for more than a week or two, and one unlooked-for blessing in this war. Rex had shipped out to Geonosis expecting them to end up in separate corners of the galaxy, never to see each other again.

Apparently falling out of a transport with a general’s girlfriend makes an impact, though.

Still. He’s been there for Cody's bad nights, and helped Echo and Fives through some of their own. Torrent’s a small company, and Rex looks after his men.

This isn't quite the same.

Jon doesn’t move, in his arms. Doesn’t shift, doesn’t grab at him or wrap himself around Rex like a limpet or dig in and make himself an immovable object. He just curls against Rex, head on his chest, pale eyes closed, and seems content there. It makes Rex wary of moving wrong, and—figuring out that a tight grip triggers a fear response is a good start, but it doesn’t seem like enough. Not when Rex is the one who sent him for the torture. But—

He threads his fingers into soft hair, strokes down over the nape of Jon's neck to the curve of his shoulder, and can feel the slow, relieved breath against his chest. It’s a little like success, quiet and secret, and Rex tries not to think of it in those terms, but it comes anyway.

“What did Dooku give you?” he asks, quiet, and doesn’t want to put Jon anywhere back in that headspace, but—he might not be the only one Dooku tries it on.

Thankfully, Jon doesn’t so much as twitch. His eyes slide open slowly, but there's a peace in them Rex hasn’t seen in him before, and when he gently slides his fingers under the collar of Jon's shirt, stroking over scarred muscle, Jon shivers.

“Something to break down mental shields,” he says after a moment. “Jedi-trained shields. You have different methods of keeping Force-users from reading your minds, so I don’t think Dooku will use it on you.”

Jedi training. Jedi training so he can keep knowledge from someone interrogating him. Rex can't breathe for a moment, trying to fit the pieces together. Sabotage of weapons factories, the theft of plans, Jedi training in mental matters, scars from past torture. Added to that, there's the sheer fact that Jon is this far into the Outer Rim, well behind enemy lines and on a planet Dooku is currently occupying, and still took the risk of attacking the military base when he _must_ have known that.

An intelligence office, Rex thinks, cold. Only just keeps his grip on Jon's shoulder from tightening, but—

If Jon was a Republic intelligence officer, it would make sense. Not a combatant, not directly, but a spy, and things here got desperate enough that he broke cover, got the information out, and went after the factories in a last-ditch attempt to halt the production of the bioweapon. Jon _is_ a spy, but—not for Dooku.

For the Republic, and Dooku has him.

“Is _that_ how you know the Order legends? You were in the Temple for training?” Jesse asks, with a tone of enlightenment. Echo, who’s doing pushups that Jesse is nominally counting, makes an irritated noise at him, and Jesse rolls his eyes and goes back to keeping track.

“A friend was,” Jon says, a little hoarse. Makes to sit up, and Rex doesn’t hold him in place, but he also doesn’t let go, and after a second Jon simply resettles, curling his legs a little more tightly up alongside Rex's. Pleased, even though the cold shock of realization, Rex strokes his hair again, lets his hand on Jon's back slip a little lower until he’s touching skin beneath the hem of his shirt. He has scars there, too, long marks that have healed crooked across his skin, and Rex doesn’t want to think too closely about what made them.

A spy, he thinks again, but the coldness this time is dread instead of suspicion.

“A Jedi friend?” Fives asks interestedly, from where he’s playing pillow for Kix again.

Jon snorts softly, then sighs, and Rex trails his fingers up the knobs of his spine, making him shiver again. “Yes,” Jon admits after a moment. “A Jedi Master. His padawan would collect stories for him.” A pause, and Jon's mouth curls, just faintly. It’s the quietest, softest smile Rex has seen from him yet. “Tae. He liked gossip.”

With a huffed groan, Echo flops down on the stone, then rolls over on his back, stretching out his arms and shoulders. “You only told us about the first of those nomadic Jedi Masters,” he says. “There were four of them, right? So who were the other three?”

There's a long pause, and then Jon carefully eases away from Rex and sits up. Rex grimaces at the sudden return of the cold, wants to reach out and pull Jon back against his chest again, but refrains. A moment later, Jon sinks back against the wall beside him, and Rex raises an arm in invitation before he can stop himself. It gets him a quick sideways glance, but after a moment Jon leans in, just slightly, and Rex takes that as permission to drape his arm over his shoulders. Doesn’t haul him sideways into him, the way he might Cody, but just holds still, letting Jon settle a little closer along his side.

He's still not okay. That’s obvious in the closeness, in the slump of his body, in the way it seems to take him effort to keep his eyes open. Strained, Rex thinks. He’s seen Anakin act the same with Obi-Wan after facing Dooku or Ventress, heard him complain about headaches and general sickness from their presence. Jedi don’t talk about those kinds of things with anyone but other Jedi, much to Kix's eternal frustration, but Rex assumes it’s similar. Dooku breaking his shields, combined with the drug, gives him the same reaction.

“Which would you like to hear about?” Jon asks, and there's good humor at the edges of his voice, a hint at an old joke. “The one who the Hutts hated more than anyone else, or the one called Fire-Eater?”

Rex feels his brows creeping up. That’s a fancy name for a Jedi, especially before the war. Anakin and General Kenobi have both picked up nicknames, but—they're different, and that was after the war started. He hadn’t thought that happened to other Jedi as well, even without their faces plastered across the holonet.

Before he can ask anything, though, Jesse asks, “One of them got the _Hutts_ mad at them? Like, hatred-levels of mad?”

Amusement curls Jon's mouth, and he inclines his head. Sinks back against the wall a little more, and Rex curves his hand, slides it down his shoulder, not gripping, just touching. He can feel more scars through the thin cloth, remembers how Jon looked without his shirt. At the time he’d been more concerned with the bruises than the scars, but he remembers them regardless, and—it makes him have to swallow hard.

It must take a lot of torture, a lot of missions, to put all of those on someone’s skin. Especially since they would have had to be all but untreated when they happened. No bacta, no dermal menders, just bandages and stitches and time.

“I believe,” Jon says, soft, “that he still has one of the highest bounties in the history of Hutt space. His name was Nico Diath, and he freed thousands of slaves from the Hutts over the years.”

That would definitely serve to make them mad. Rex raises a brow, impressed despite himself. Thousands of slaves is a hell of a lot, and if each handful came with a pissed off slave owner—

Rex can definitely see why the Jedi had such a high bounty.

“But—I thought Jedi aren’t supposed to operate in Hutt space,” Echo says with a frown. “As part of the Republic, the Jedi can't interfere in Hutt business.”

“No,” Jon agrees, soft. He closes his eyes, head dipping, and Rex takes the chance to gently tug him sideways, letting Jon's head rest against his shoulder again. Jon seems too tired to even notice, but he says, “Nico never cared about the law. Only about what was right. And slavery isn't, so he stopped it wherever he could.”

“I bet he was just like General Skywalker,” Fives says, grinning. “Wild and—”

Jon's snort is entirely amused. “No,” he says dryly. “The Diath family has produced Jedi Masters for centuries. Nico was…like someone on the Council. Except he would rather kiss a rancor than actually serve on it.”

Not what Rex was expecting him to say. He frowns, thinking of the last nomadic Jedi Master Jon mentioned, and—it seems fitting for one of them to have been a Healer who bucked tradition, who went against some of the most basic parts of being a Jedi, but it’s far harder to imagine someone like General Gallia or General Tiin doing the same. But clearly it happened, if someone from a well-respected family all but deserted the Order to traipse around Hutt space and free slaves.

“I bet he was the Council’s _favorite_ ,” Fives says, snickering. He leans back on one hand, brushing his other over Kix's shaved hair as the medic stirs faintly, and says, “The Senate’s, too.”

Jon hums, unmoving. “The Jedi couldn’t control him, and the Republic had no hold over him. He came back to the Temple once in a while, and he took his nephew as a padawan, but they had no way to make him stop without expelling him from the Order, and he hadn’t technically broken any laws.”

Definitely the Council’s favorite, Rex thinks wryly. He can already imagine Windu's headache just _hearing_ the man’s name.

“It sounds like you knew him,” Jesse observes, and when Rex flicks a glance at him, he has his head tipped to the side, expression interested. “Like, personally.”

Rex pauses, startled. It’s true, though. There’s an element of closeness that the words imply, and Jon's using his given name, too. Not _Master Diath_ , but _Nico_. Maybe someone else wouldn’t notice, but—clones put a lot of weight on names. With the other Master, too, there was a touch of familiarity, though Rex hadn’t noticed it at the time. Jon had said she looked young still, right before she died, and Rex had passed it off as a storyteller adding details. There aren’t holos of Jedi, though, as a rule, unless it’s by accident, and there are likely even fewer of a Healer who spent most of her time in the depths of the Outer Rim, so—how would he know?

There's no answer, though, just a huff of slightly heavier breath. Jon is still, his eyes closed where he’s resting against Rex's shoulder, and Rex breathes out. Lifts a hand, careful, and instead of grabbing he simply brushes a strand of hair out of Jon's eyes. Jon doesn’t move; whatever sixth sense he has for people reaching for him, even in his sleep, it apparently doesn’t apply to touches like this.

“Let’s not make him give Dooku all of his secrets,” he says to Jesse, lightens his tone and makes it a joke. He meets his eyes across the gap, though, gives him a nod in recognition of the catch, and Jesse smiles a little wryly.

“Not much of a secret, seeing the Jedi Master is dead,” he says, and Rex sighs, tipping his head back. Thinks, unable to help himself, of the weight of Jon tucked up against him, clearly hurt worse by this than he was the beating, and—

“ _Still think he’s a spy_?” Echo asks in Mando’a, soft.

Rex hesitates. Wants to say no without pause, wants to believe it, but.

But the lives of his men have to come before feelings, and right now, they're prisoners of a man who doesn’t care if they all die horrifically. Dooku wouldn’t even think about leaving a plant with them, letting him suffer. Rex wants to believe that he’s a Republic intelligence officer, but—

He can't say for certain, and that means he can't risk believing it fully. Wants to, desperately, because this at least isn't faked. This is real pain. Jon's reaction to being touched is the result of something terrible happening to him, and there's no faking that.

Carefully, gently, he pulls Jon in a little tighter, feels the way he shifts, like he wants to curl closer but won't let himself even now. Breathes out, like regret, and tells Echo, “ _I don’t know_.”

Echo doesn’t seem any happier with that answer than Rex feels, but he turns away, shoves at Jesse, and doesn’t ask again.


	11. Chapter 11

“You're all right, Master Fay?” Hardcase asks worriedly, following close at her heels as they pick their way down a steep incline. “You didn’t tire yourself out or anything?”

Fay gives him a smile over her shoulder, catching herself on a tree. “It would take far more than that to tire me, Hardcase,” she says, “but thank you for your concern.”

“More than that?” Hardcase sounds mildly incredulous. “You destroyed three armed transports _and_ took out a munitions factory!”

Fay laughs a little, reaching out a hand to catch him as his boots slip on the slope. “You helped quite a lot with that,” she reminds him, and checks the slope of the mountain above them. There's still a plume of smoke rising from the factory, and if she focuses, she can feel the hum of minds reacting, frantic worry and anger and adjustment of plans. The man in charge is thinking about how to move operations to the other factories, and Fay can't help but smile. They’ll be in for quite a shock when the others fall as well.

“It’s just ahead,” she says, ducking beneath the branches of a tree that drape like a veil. “No one will find us here.”

“You're sure?” Hardcase asks, slightly skeptical even as he follows her. “They’re probably going to have scanners and drones everywhere.”

“Assi’s mountains disrupt signals,” Fay says. “They create echoes and false images. Even if they do happen to fly close enough to see us, they won't know it’s actually us.”

The ground levels out ahead of them, and she shifts her balance, steps off incline, then grabs Hardcase’s elbow again as he stumbles. There's a river carving a swift path on the other side of the small clearing, more trees with draping branches keeping them from the sight of anyone who might come this way, and it’s as close to secure as they can get in the middle of the forest. Fay will sense it if anyone thinks to search this area, and she can turn them away easily enough with a gentle push.

“At least there's that,” Hardcase says, determinedly hopeful. There was no trace of his squad in the factory, and Fay hopes that they weren’t simply taken somewhere and executed, or shipped off the planet again. Hardcase has so much hope in him, so much desperation to save his brothers, and she wants to help him.

“Yes,” Fay murmurs, drawing her hood back. She looks up at the brightening sky, then takes a breath and says, “I need to meditate, so you can leave the watch to me. Get some rest, Hardcase.”

Hardcase looks torn, but after a long moment he nods and sinks down on the springy grass, tugging at the collar of his black thermals. “No trace of them?” he asks, watching her, and Fay has to shake her head.

“I’ll look,” she promises. “Aurra Sing’s memories need to be released, and I’ll check whether she knows what happened to your squad.”

Hardcase grimaces, but nods. “Don’t dwell too much, Master Fay,” he says. “Aurra Sing’s not the kind of person you want in your head.”

Fay smiles ruefully, settling herself on her knees and resting her hands on her thighs. “Believe me, Hardcase, I've dealt with creatures far worse than Sing in my time as a Jedi. Her darkness cannot touch me.”

“If you're sure,” Hardcase says, and carefully sets the case of charges to the side, checking the clasps once more before he flops down and drapes an arm over his eyes. “Wake me us when you're done, Master Fay, and I’ll take over.”

“Of course,” Fay murmurs, and she doesn’t _need_ the sleep, but—from her brush of his mind, she can tell that Hardcase won't take it well if she lets him sleep the day through without waking him, and he won't take Jedi abilities as an excuse. It’s endearing. “Rest, Hardcase. There will be more to do this evening.”

“More to blow up,” Hardcase says, and that at least he sounds cheerful about.

Fay chuckles. “Yes,” she agrees, and closes her eyes, breathing out as she slips into a meditative state.

Aurra Sing as a person is no more, but her memories still rest within Fay's mind, a tangle of darkness and resentment and rage. Quickly, carefully, Fay teases them out of their snarl, spins out the strands of them and lets them flow past her, out into the Force. From the beginning, hurtling towards the end, and she catches glimpses of the Temple, of the Jedi, of a Master who couldn’t see to her training and then the one who could. Dark Woman, harsh and brusque and unceasing, her training methods brutal. Pirates, then, and a long fall downward from captive to bounty hunter, with a thousand small bits of darkness in between. Murders, and assassinations, and cruelty aplenty, and Fay breathes through it, lets it go.

This is how she respects those she wipes back to nothingness. She at least can observe their lives, acknowledge their existence even if it’s changed now. Aurra Sing was a terrible, dark thing, and Fay has little mercy in her for people like that, but—this is her way of recognizing what light once existed in her. And—

A memory rises, clearer than most. _Recent_ , and Fay freezes, breath tangling in her lungs all at once.

A face, familiar, scarred. Pale eyes, wild and almost mad, and a desperate, wrenching attempt to get free. Dooku, no longer the brat Fay remembers but a traitor to the Order, standing behind Sing with cruel eyes, and Jon on Sing’s grip, practically broken.

Fury isn't a thing that comes easy to Fay, but she feels it now. One hard-bright surge of rage that drives her to her feet, braced and ready to move, fists clenched. Her breath shakes out of her lungs as Sing’s memory of Jon trembling and snarling fills her head, and she thinks _where_ and gets an image of the great stone keep on the mountaintop, Jon thrown into a bare cell, a man she knows from Hardcase’s thoughts stepping forward as if to catch him. Identical faces in the cells around, full of fury, and Sing’s glee at all their hatred, their suffering—

Fay cuts the memory off with ruthless precision, taking a step back. Forces herself to breathe out, to ease back, to let her fury, tainted with Sing’s darkness, filter back into the Force. Rage won't do anyone any good right now.

She didn’t feel Dooku, though. Didn’t feel his presence before, and doesn’t feel him now, and can't tell that Jon is up in the keep even though she _knows_ he is.

Some kind of shielding, she thinks, and closes her eyes. Some kind of shielding, and Dooku has Jon, but—

The factories are close to finishing production of the bioweapon. They need to be her first priority, before any of the weapons can be shipped out to the Separatist armies. If she lets any of them slip past, thousands will die for her mistake.

But Jon is suffering, held by a Sith. Fay needs to save him, because he was the first person in centuries to forge a connection with her, to remind her that not everything was duty and healing and the press of the next task.

Her years traveling with Jon were the closest she’s come to community and familial care since she left the Temple the first time, and every broken piece of him is _hers_ to safeguard, hers to protect. She won't let Dooku have him.

But she won't let innocents die because of sentiment, either.

Fay breathes out, lets her legs fold. She hits the ground on her knees, hands clasped in her lap, and bows her head. Feels the Force, the weave and web of it, the tapestry that makes up existence, and _knows_ where her path lies.

Innocents over other Jedi. Many lives over the few. That’s the Jedi way, when there are no other choices that can be made. Fay knows it, and Jon knows it, and there was never a chance that Fay would choose another path, but it still aches.

“Soon,” she murmurs, even though Jon's mind is out of reach. “I’ll be there soon, Jon. Just bear it a little longer.”

He can't hear her, won't. But that’s fine. Fay will simply have to find him, and that will be apology enough.

Jon can still feel Rex's mind when he wakes.

It’s startling. Almost alarming, for the first few handfuls of seconds before what he’s feeling register. There are voices, overlapping, and hands on his skin, warmth beneath his cheek, fingers in his hair, but—only one mind that he can sense. Just Rex, as steady as the surf, undercut with worry and calculation but also bright with humor, and Jon wants to bury himself in the sense of someone else, curl up under his skin and prove that he’s not Force-blind.

There are more voices that just Rex's, though, and Jon can't get a good sense of the minds that belong to them. Reaches, automatic and a little desperate, to try and grasp them, but it’s like he’s grabbing for gossamer that’s just beyond his reach. There's some vague impression of presence, a knowledge that there are other people beyond just their voices, but he can't tell who they are or how many. Can't feel Fay, either, and if she’s still on the planet he should be able to. She never hides herself from him.

Careful, assessing, Jon feels out the edges of his shields, testing whether they’ve rebuilt themselves, and the fact that the cracks are repairing themselves more quickly than he’d thought they would is a relief. If Dooku tries his drug again, tries to hammer through them, they should hold, even if it will be unpleasant. And, if Jon is really getting his sense of the Force back, he can strengthen them from within, reinforce them more than before.

All isn't lost, he thinks, and opens his eyes.

“—swear on the Force, it’s true!”

“You're so full of bantha shit, it’s _not_ —”

“As if General Unduli would do that!”

“I saw it with my own eyes—”

“Do you know how many _regs_ that would break? Gree wouldn’t—”

“Just because _you_ wouldn’t doesn’t mean _Gree_ is in love with a reg manual too—”

Rex groans, low and quiet and ruefully amused, and the fingers in Jon's hair curl, tugging lightly at it. It makes Jon want to jerk away, but he manages to control the instinct, to push down the memories of Dark Woman’s fist in his hair, pulling him upright. Rex won't.

The fact that Jon can tell himself that and believe it is bewildering, but—it’s a relief, too.

“The four of you are going to get written up if anyone hears you gossiping like that,” Rex says, pointed. “Especially about a _general_.”

“Technically we’re gossiping about Gree,” Fives says, unbothered by the chastisement.

“Mostly,” Jesse mutters.

“Sorry, Captain,” Kix says, mildly regretful.

“It’s still ridiculous,” Echo huffs, and Jon can see him circling his cell, carefully keeping his muscles loose in the cold. Jesse is sprawled on the ground, eyeing Echo’s feet in a way that says he’s probably going to try and trip him soon, and Jon _reaches_ —

Gets a half-second flicker of clarity that makes his breath catch, his sense of Jesse's mind fierce and clear for one instant. Feels a bitter sort of determination, loyalty as sharp as blades, a wash of desperate protectiveness—

Loses it again, like someone pulled a curtain back over the world. But he felt it, even if only for a moment, and that’s enough to make his breath come easier in his chest.

He’s still a Jedi. He’s all right. This isn't the end of him.

“I think I heard once,” he says, and feels Rex still, thumb settling right behind Jon's ear, “that Luminara Unduli and Quinlan Vos were best friends when they were padawans. Along with Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

There's a moment of startled silence. “ _Vos_?” Fives demands. “Vos and Unduli? Vos and Unduli and _Kenobi_?”

“Mm.” Jon lifts his head from Rex's shoulder, even though he doesn’t quite want to. The thumb behind his ear slides down, Rex cupping the back of his neck with broad, callused fingers, and Jon has to swallow before he can raise his head. “They must have given their Masters a few headaches.”

“More headaches than ten other padawans combined,” Kix says in something like awe, and shakes his head. “Maybe it’s not bantha shit.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Jesse says, indignant. “I told you, I was there.”

“More rumors from your friend and his padawan?” Rex asks, and there's a note of amusement in his voice, in his mind. He’s watching as Jon straightens, and there's a touch of concern shading the edge of his thoughts.

Jon shouldn’t be glad to feel it, but it’s a solid, steady sense of another mind for the first time since Dooku threw him through a couple of walls. He’d be willing to take just about anything at this point.

“Yes,” Jon says, because Tae passed on plenty of gossip about Kenobi after their false deaths. Nico had wanted to know more about Dooku's grandpadawan, whether he was trustworthy, whether Dooku had any influence over him. It became clear rather quickly that he didn’t, that Kenobi was a wildcard of a Knight with a history of recklessness, but Tae had kept passing on information about him over the years.

“Well, they’ve enlightened all of us,” Rex says dryly, but his eyes are on Jon, steady and careful. After a moment, he asks, “Are you all right?”

“Much better,” Jon says quietly, and then, “Thank you,” because he knows when debts are owed. Rex has every reason to be wary of him, to hold back, and instead he’s helped Jon patch himself up, let Jon be pathetic and needy right on top of him. With a faint grimace at himself, he settles on his knees, raking a hand through his hair, and tries to pretend he doesn’t feel a loss when Rex's touch falls away.

“Just returning the favor,” Rex says, like sharing body heat is in any way comparable to talking Jon down from the edge of madness. Still, Jon doesn’t protest, just nods once in silent thanks and then drops his hands on his knees. Breathes in—

Another fractured second of clarity, and the sense of Darkness closing in.

Instantly, Jon is on his feet, balance only a little unsteady, something that wants to be rage knotted tight in his chest. “Dooku,” he says, and Rex pushes up, scowling. He steps in front of Jon, a deliberate movement, and squares his shoulders like he’s trying to block Jon from view.

It makes something twist, unsteady, startled, in Jon's chest, and as the door creaks open, he finds he can't move at all.

“Well, spy,” Dooku's polite, measured voice says as he sweeps in, dark cloak rippling. “I see your control is better than I gave you credit for. Or did the good captain find a way to…distract you? I've heard such things are possible.”

Jon's stomach turns at the implication, and he can't help but take a sharp step back, away from the very idea of that as his skin crawls. If possible, Rex goes even stiffer, and he follows Jon back, one pace in retreat as he blocks Jon from Dooku bodily.

“I guess he’s stronger than you thought,” Rex says coldly, and Jon grits his teeth, then takes a half step forward. Hesitates, but after a moment he subtly presses a hand to Rex's back, fingers splayed across the muscle. He can feel Rex's breath catch, then release more slowly, and Rex leans back into the touch just a little.

“I see his choice to send you for torture has been forgiven already,” Dooku says coolly, eyes heavy on them. “How magnanimous of you, spy.”

Something cold slides down Jon's spine. That tone means Dooku is going to try it again, he thinks, and has to be careful in the next breath he takes. There's rage in him, vicious and cold, and if anyone deserves it, it’s Dooku, but—

That’s not the person Jon can be and survive, so he lets it bleed out, releases the emotion, meets Dooku's eyes across the cell.

“The only blame here lies with you, Dooku,” he says softly.

Dooku smiles thinly. “On the contrary, spy, it lies with you and your kind. Tell me the name and location of your accomplice, or I will make life very unpleasant for the captain for the next few hours.”

Jon doesn’t let himself react, doesn’t let so much as a flicker of emotion cross his face. “My contact?” he asks dryly. “Didn’t you ask that enough yesterday? I won't—”

“No,” Dooku says, flat. “I am referring to your companion, who attempted to destroy a weapons factory last night. I do not like rats in my house, spy. I will root out every last one of them and kill them slowly. You, however, may find yourself spared if you tell me where to find the rest.”

Fay. Fay is moving, is fine. And she wouldn’t have _attempted_ to destroy a factory, she actually would have done it. Jon raises his head, allows himself the faintest edge of a smile, and says, “I have no idea what you're talking about. I was working alone.”

Dooku's eyes narrow, and he tips his head to one of the Magna Guards beside him. “Take the clone,” he says. “We shall see how well he deals with suffering for another’s ideals.”

The droid steps forward, and Jon tenses, fingers curling into Rex's shirt in an involuntary motion. Before he can pull him back, though, Rex turns, catches his wrist and meets his eyes. His mind is all bullish certainty, resistance honed into a weapon, and it makes Jon's breath catch.

“Don’t tell him a damned thing,” Rex says, and it’s as heavy as an order. “No matter what.”

Jon hesitates, but—

“All right,” he says quietly, and Rex gives him one crooked corner of a smile and then steps forward to meet the Magna Guard, Jon's hand slipping through his fingers. Dooku is still watching, like he’s cataloguing every weakness, but Rex ignores him, and Jon can feel the certainty in him, the awareness that this will hurt but that it will be worth it, and he has to close his eyes, brace himself.

Three steps away from the cell and Jon's sense of Rex's mind fades away, veiled again, but—he’ll come back. This won't be the end of things.

Jon can have faith in that.

Fives calls something in Mando’a, too quick for Jon to catch, and Rex answers more calmly, without so much as looking back at him. It makes Jon's skin prickle, the almost-understanding of the shifted dialect that doesn’t let him understand _enough_ , and he keeps his eyes on Rex as the guards march him out the door.

Dooku is the one who lingers, still studying Jon with narrowed eyes. “You are a cruel man,” he says, flat indictment of Jon's character. “Letting others suffer for you.”

Jon laughs, a bare rasp of sound in his throat, and bares his teeth at Dooku in a threatening expression even Knol would be proud of. “You keep sacking worlds and enslaving their people,” he says. “If you want cruel, Dooku, look in a mirror.”

Dooku raises a brow, unimpressed. “You carry the scars of many wars,” he says. “Surely you know by now that there are no honorable men in a war, spy. I do what I must to win, given that the Republic’s iron-fisted rule has become utterly intolerable.”

“So the Trade Federation’s rule is better?” Jon asks, and feels it like pinpricks across his skin. Hypocrisy, in a crooked way, because he wasn’t willing to put himself on the line to defend the Republic either. Understands, all too well, why worlds would join the Separatist cause instead of staying with a Republic that has never listened to their words.

But then, when lives were at risk, Jon and Fay both made the only choice they could as Jedi. They picked lives over secrecy, over their continued lack of involvement, and Jon still doesn’t regret it. If it keeps that bioweapon from being deployed, or even if they _tried_ to keep the bioweapon from being deployed, it will be enough.

A Jedi's duty is preserving life, and Jon may have failed where the clones are concerned, but he can at least save civilians.

“Your philosophy will bring nothing but suffering,” Dooku says. “To the captain, and to his men. Perhaps a night without rations will teach you to be more open-minded, boy.”

In the other cell, Echo snorts, folding his arms across his chest. “ _Petty bastard_ ,” he says, and that Mando’a at least Jon understands. He doesn’t let his amusement show, but holds Dooku's gaze, and says, “I hope you choke on your next meal, Count Dooku. It would be a fitting end to your legacy.”

Dooku's eyes narrow, and he raises a hand. Jon has half a second to realize what’s coming before an invisible hand goes tight around his neck, and he chokes. Chokes, jerks, but Dooku lifts him off his feet by the throat, tightens his grip until Jon is clawing desperately at his neck. He can feel his windpipe giving way, and there are already dark spots spinning at the edges of his vision, animal panic surging—

And then the hold is gone, and Jon drops, lands hard on his knees. He can hear Kix shouting, furious, but there's a ringing in his ears as he puts his hands up, hiding his throat as he coughs and gasps for breath. He’s shaking, every muscle trembling, and he _loathes_ it.

Force, but he hates being choked.

“Mind your _tongue_ ,” Dooku hisses, and turns on his heel, stalking out of the room. The door closes behind him with a groaning creak, and Jon closes his eyes, trying to get himself under control.

“ _Jon_ ,” Kix says, loud, almost frantic. “Jon, your throat—”

Jon holds up a hand, raising his head. Fives has his arms locked around Kix's chest, bodily holding him back, and Kix's expression is twisted, full of a despairing sort of rage. At the edge of their cells, Jesse is on his feet as well, braced like he’s only just stopping himself from reaching for Kix.

“Sorry,” Kix says, after several moments getting himself under control. Swallows, and then says steadily, “Is there any blood in your mouth? Can you breathe at all?”

“No blood,” Jon rasps, and pushes to his feet. He wants to wrap his arms around himself, because there's an arctic sort of cold settling into his bones, but it’s just a response to fear and he won't give in to it.

Kix closes his eyes, looking pained. “I—let me know if your breathing gets worse,” he says helplessly. “I might be able to help, even from here.”

Jon nods, not about to argue when it will at least give Kix peace of mind, and looks towards the door. Tries, with all the strength that determination gives him, to grab the door and wrench it off its hinges, but—

The Force is still behind a heavy grey veil, out of reach, and it won't answer him. Jon strains, and tries, and he can't even grasp the edges of the Force without his head starting to ache and spin.

“Jon?” Echo asks, concerned, and Jon opens his eyes, still staring at the door.

Without answering, he steps back, sinking down in the center of the cell to sit with his legs crossed beneath him, and breathes out. Breathes in, slow, steady, despite the ache in his throat, and forces himself to relax until he can slip right into mediation.

He might not be able to touch the door, but he reached Rex's mind before. He touched his thoughts. If he can do that again, he can help him, block the pain, give him other things to focus on. It seems like the very least Jon can do, in this situation.

“Repeating yourself now, Count?” Rex manages through chattering teeth, hauled dripping wet and freezing out of the mountain lake. The wind up here whistles over the rough stone, and the cold is like knives carving right to his bones. He’s pretty sure he can feel the water in his hair and on his lashes freezing, but—

But he survived this before. He can do it again.

In the shadows of the fortress, Dooku observes him, emotionless and unwavering as his guards pin Rex between them and hold him there, right in front of Dooku. Rex grits his teeth against another desperate shiver, meeting the count’s cold eyes, and doesn’t let himself waver.

“I am not an unreasonable man, Captain,” Dook say after a long moment. “My quarrel is with the Republic, not her soldiers. If you provide the information I need, I will release you and your men without pause. If you continue to resist, however, you will all die.”

Rex closes his eyes, fighting another wracking shiver. “And Jon?” he manages.

Dooku's expression hardens. “He is not one of yours, Captain. He is a betrayer, an insect in Human skin. Such rats must be dealt with, or they lead to…infestations.” A pause, deliberate, weighty, and then he says, “However. Should you provide me with the information regarding his partner, I could perhaps find myself convinced.”

Rex's teeth chatter, and he’s shivering so hard he can barely stand up. But—how much damage can a few more dips in the lake do?

He says nothing, and Dooku snort quietly. “Very well. Guards, string him up.”

Rex jerks. “ _What_?” he demands, struggling against the Magna Guards’ iron grip. They don’t even seem to notice as they haul him towards a metal frame set alone in the middle of the windy mountaintop. All Rex can think of is being hung, the guards putting a wire around his neck and leaving him to die, and he thrashes, shouts. Refuses to make it easy, even if this is the end, and there's no way one Human can overpower three Magna Guards unarmed, but he does his damndest.

It doesn’t matter. They get his arms locked into cuffs in front of him, drag him up by his wrists until only the tips of his toes are supporting his weight, and then chain his hands there.

 _Kriff_ , Rex thinks grimly, knowing precisely what this is. Between the cold and the wind and the strain, this is going to be karking _hell_ , and it will only get worse the longer Dooku leaves him up here.

He jerks at the chains, testing, but the manacles are too tight, the chains themselves too thick. There's no getting out of them without physically cutting his arms off.

“Willing to reconsider, Captain?” Dooku asks, circling him with steady steps. “This barbarity can all be ended immediately, I assure you. Your stubbornness is the only reason it continues.”

Rex grits his teeth as the wind cuts through him. His instinct is to tell Dooku to go to hell, but—

“You want to know who Jon's contact is?” he asks, and as Dooku comes to a halt in front of him, Rex meets his gaze, sees the flicker of satisfaction that rises.

“Yes,” Dooku says, sly and sharp. “Tell me and I will have my guards take you to my finest guest quarters immediately. Your men will be allowed to join you. My hospitality knows no bounds where my allies are concerned.”

Rex doesn’t scoff, even though it’s a close thing. Instead, he tips his chin up, says, “Blankets for my men, and extra rations. And Jon stays with us.”

Dooku snorts. “Do you really think he will thank you for this, Captain? His type is terminally ungrateful. I would separate you for your own good—”

“Jon stays with us,” Rex repeats, implacable.

Dooku stares at him narrowly for another moment, then inclines his head. “Very well,” he allows. “I agree. The name?”

Rex takes a breath. “Nico Diath,” he says.

Instantly, Dooku's expression turns _arctic_ , and he steps back. “How did you learn that name?” he asks sharply.

That’s—not the reaction Rex was expecting. He swallows down his surprise, doesn’t let himself flinch from the growing rage on Dooku's face. “Jon,” he says, which is true enough.

Dooku's hands curl into fists, then relax all at once, and he draws himself up to his full height. “Master Nico Diath,” he says flatly, “has been dead for a year already. I ordered his assassination myself, Captain. Next time, make your lies more convincing.” With a sweep of his dark robes, he turns, stalking back towards the keep.

The Magna Guards stay where they are, flanking Rex, and he grimaces, tilts his head back, tries to get more of a grip on the stones with his bare feet. His arms already ache, freezing muscles only wanting to contract, shivers still wracking him. But—

Assassination. Jon framed it as the nomadic Jedi Masters being killed on a mission, not outright assassination, and…how would anyone working for Dooku not know he had them killed?

Everything hurts, but there's still an undeniable flicker of hope that rises, bright and hot in Rex's chest. One more piece of the puzzle, he thinks, and sets his jaw.

It’s going to be a long morning, but—he’ll survive it. He has to.


	12. Chapter 12

“No sign of them yet?” Anakin asks grimly, even as he keeps one eye on the horizon. They're supposed to be getting reinforcements soon, but—

Rex still isn't back, and there's been no sign that he and his squad made it to their destination. Aayla didn’t report any break in the shelling, and there haven’t been any mentions of sabotage on intercepted communications.

No mentions of GAR soldiers killed behind enemy lines, either, so at least Anakin can cling to that much hope.

“No, sir,” Cody says, and he doesn’t look any more at ease than Anakin feels; his posture is perfectly, painfully straight, and his face is stony, dangerous.

Rex is his friend, too, Anakin thinks, and it turns like grief in his stomach. He _hates_ this.

“We’ll keep looking,” he says, because there’s nothing else they _can_ do at this point.

That, at least, gets a small, rueful smile from Cody. “Yes, sir,” he agrees, and raises his eyes to where a group of LAAT/i ships are just coming into view. “Reinforcements couldn’t have come at a better time.”

The sight of them makes something in Anakin's chest turn over. He’d wanted it to be Obi-Wan who came to support them, but Obi-Wan is on a separate mission for the Council, left the 212th to bolster the ranks of the 501st but couldn’t do more. The Council mentioned sending a Knight rather than a Master, given how short-handed they are, but—Anakin just hopes it’s someone reliable. Someone who knows how to think on their feet, and that the rules won't always save the most lives.

“Stop fretting, Master,” Ahsoka says pointedly, folding her arms across her chest and giving him a smirk she definitely learned from Obi-Wan. “I'm sure they’ll like you just fine.”

“Be _quiet_ , that’s not what I'm worried about,” Anakin huffs, but he watches the first transport descend with a flicker of trepidation. The clones within it are wearing armor marked with green and gold, and the commander is clear, armor almost completely green, _kama_ striped with gold, and Anakin can hear Cody's indrawn breath. When he glances back, there's a smile breaking across Cody's face, something he hasn’t seen since Rex missed his second check-in, and it’s a relief to see.

“Commander?” he asks.

“Doom,” Cody says. “That’s Commander Doom. What’d he do to get stuck with a new Knight?”

Anakin glances back, just in time to see a figure in Jedi robes leap out of the transport before it’s fully landed. A Human, a man, with grey hair and dark brown skin and a grin that’s both perfectly familiar and sorely missed, and Anakin is moving before he can stop himself, crossing the space between them. Tae sees him coming and steps to meet him, and they crash together, Anakin laughing, Tae grabbing him.

One terrible mission with the Padawan Pack that should have left them all dead, but—somehow Anakin came out of it not just alive, but with _friends_. And Tae is the closest of them, the most relatable. Anakin hadn’t thought he’d ever make any connections in the Temple except for Obi-Wan, but Tae proved him wrong.

“Tae!” he says, pulling back, and Tae ducks his head and laughs, gripping his wrists tightly. “What are you doing here?”

“You asked for reinforcements, didn’t you?” Tae counters, and the fact that he can smile after his Master’s death, his _uncle’s_ death, has always been bewildering and admirable in equal measure. If anything, he looks good now, settled, steady. His eyes are sharp as he looks Anakin over, and he tilts his head, then asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Besides the war?” Anakin asks ruefully, and Tae snorts. He falls into step beside Anakin as they head back towards the camp, and Anakin takes a breath. “My second-in-command was leading a squad behind enemy lines, to stop the shelling, but he and his men vanished.”

Tae frowns, glancing over at Commander Doom as he falls in with them. “How long ago?” he asks.

“Six days,” Anakin says grimly, and Tae grimaces, clearly knowing what that means for Rex's chances.

“We brought a new prototype stealth ship,” Tae offers. “I’ll have it deployed and see if we can't pick them up.”

“Thanks, Tae,” Anakin says, and reaches out to clasp his wrist. Tae gives him a crooked smile in return, and Anakin can feel the brush of his thoughts, clearer and sharper than any other Jedi he’s ever met. Belatedly, he glances back at the transports, and asks, “No Elora?”

Tae shakes his head. “I shouldn’t need the link anymore,” he says. “It’s not practical right now, and I'm more in control.” His smile is rueful. “That’s why they finally made me a Knight, I think. I don’t _need_ to touch someone’s mind all the time.”

Anakin winces, well-able to remember Tae on Jabiim, raw and out of control. He’s worlds away from that now, thankfully. “Well, if you do,” he says, “I’m willing.”

The grip around his wrist tightens, and Tae meets his eyes. “Thanks, Anakin,” he says. “I’ll let you know.”

“Hey, the weird padawans have to stick together,” Anakin jokes, and Tae snorts. It makes Anakin grin, and he says, “Palpatine tells me that it’s because greatness doesn’t come from ordinary people.”

Tae pauses, watching him oddly for a moment, and then huffs in amusement. “You’re still getting mentored by the Supreme Chancellor?” he asks. “Does he want you to be a politician or something?”

“He’s just a friend,” Anakin protests. “Just like you.”

“ _Just_ like me?” Tae repeats, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “I fought _assassin droids_ with you, Ani.”

That’s true, Anakin is willing to admit. Palpatine might be a good man, but he’ll never understand being a Jedi. Tae does, because just like Anakin, it’s everything that he is.

Still, Anakin doesn’t have to _admit_ that. “Lots of people would fight assassin droids with me,” he says. “Like Ahsoka. Ahsoka would _totally_ fight assassin droids with me.”

“I would?” Ashoka asks dryly, and grins when Anakin pulls a face at her. “Careful, Master, Obi-Wan keeps saying your face will get stuck like that.”

“He’s been saying that since I was nine,” Anakin says dismissively. “Tae, this is my padawan, Ahsoka Tano. Ahsoka, this is Knight Tae Diath.”

Ahsoka brightens. “Anakin's told me about you and the rest of the Padawan Pack,” she says. “You're a telepath, right?”

Tae slants Anakin a glance, and Anakin raises his hands in self-defense. “All good things,” he protests.

“I don’t believe you,” Tae retorts, but he waves his commander forward. “But yeah, I'm a telepath. This is Commander Doom. Commander Cody, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Cody says promptly. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

“Same.” Tae nods to him, then elbows Anakin lightly. “Come on, let’s remind you what being a Jedi is all about, before the Chancellor really gets his claws in you.”

“He’s my _friend_ ,” Anakin repeats, though he follows when Tae leads him towards the camp, Ahsoka on their heels.

“Politicians aren’t your friends,” Tae says firmly. “My uncle believed in that more than anything.”

Anakin's heard the sage words of Master Nico Diath repeated more than once in the last year and a half since their mission to Jabiim. He doesn’t roll his eyes, though, because he _saw_ what Nico's death did to Tae, and instead just huffs, disgruntled.

“Some politicians are good,” he mutters.

“Like Senator Amidala?” Tae asks, unimpressed, and Ahsoka snickers. Anakin kicks her in the ankle, and she yelps and smacks him in return.

“ _Yes_ , like Senator Amidala,” Anakin tells Tae. “And—”

“Don’t say Palpatine,” Tae says. “Amidala fights for sentient rights. Palpatine is collecting wartime powers like it’s a sabacc game. If you're going to trust him, Anakin, just…be careful.”

Something turns in Anakin's chest, and he swallows, has to look away. Obi-Wan has never been entirely pleased with his friendship with the Chancellor, either. And—Tae is generally calm, knows him, survived the whole Jabiim campaign with him. Anakin would trust Tae to have his back over anyone but Obi-Wan and Padmé.

He doesn’t _really_ believe that he can't trust Palpatine. But at the same time, the thought sits in the back of his brain, a niggling seed, and he has to breathe through it.

“Get that stealth ship down here. I need to find Rex,” he says, instead of answering, and because Tae is a friend, he lets it go.

It’s been nearly twelve hours, by Jon's counting, when they finally bring Rex back.

Dooku isn't there, and Aurra Sing isn't there. There's no one to rail at, no sentients that will actually notice. Just six Magna Guards, marching in two rows, with a figure dragged between them.

“Captain!” Fives cries, and he’s the first to step forward, his whole body tensed to lunge. Fear, Jon thinks, and stays where he is, watching the foremost pair of droids key the cell open. The four behind them march in, and it takes all of Jon's self-control not to lunge for them, to wrestle Rex out of their hands. But—

Rex is panting, and pale, and his lips are blue, and Jon can see him shivering in short, hard bursts that seem physically painful. There are tear-tracks on his cheek, frozen to his skin, and Jon looks at him and wants to bury Dooku two meters down.

No pyre. Not for a traitor like Dooku. Not for a _monster_ like Dooku.

Jon doesn’t move, even as the Magna Guards drop Rex on the ground by the door, rough and uncaring. If he moves, he’ll go for their heads, and against six of them, without the Force, his odds of winning aren’t even worth contemplating.

“No blankets?” he asks, hoarse, watching them closely.

The two droids by the door exchange glances, then turn. There’s a service droid trundling through the door, carrying folded cloth and covered dishes, and Jon's eyes narrow.

Dooku isn't kind, isn't generous. He wouldn’t hand over blankets and extra food without ulterior motives, and none of them good.

“As per the arrangement,” the Magna Guard says, mechanical voice grating. “The Count wishes for you to thank the captain for his assistance.”

Oh, Jon thinks grimly. It’s a feint. They're meant to think that Rex broke, that he gave in and passed on information. Given Rex's state, even he might believe it at this point, but—

Jon doesn’t. Torture can break anyone, but—this wasn’t Rex's breaking point. He’s sure of it.

Instead of telling them exactly where they can put Dooku's attempt at manipulation, Jon stays silent. It’s easier on his throat, regardless. He waits until two sets of dishes have been unloaded into their cell, followed by two blankets, and then watches the guards leave, locking the door behind them. They move on to the other cells, but as soon as the door is closed Jon is up, dropping to one knee next to Rex. There are bloody marks around his wrists, the shape of cuffs, and he’s stiff and shuddering and gasping for breath like he’s having a heart attack.

“Shh,” Jon murmurs, and drags both blankets close enough to unfold them. He throws them both over Rex, sliding under them and curling himself around Rex as much as he can, and Rex jolts in his arms, gasps out a sound of pain that lodges in Jon's chest like knives. Instead of reaching for Jon, he curls in on himself, breaths hitching, face twisted up in agony as he tries to turn his head away from the other clones.

Jon doesn’t hesitate; he pulls the blankets over their heads, then slides a hand down Rex's chest, and he can feel Rex's mind, can touch his thoughts. They're a tangle of pain and fear and despair right now, and Jon lets his own thoughts twist through Rex's, providing a barrier from the pain. He tries quietly, desperately, to channel just a little power, to twist it into some sort of healing, but it’s like grabbing greased strings. Impossible to tell how much is just his imagination, calling up the unpleasant warmth of Force healing even when it doesn’t exist, and how much is reality, but—he keeps trying.

“They can’t see you,” he says roughly, catching Rex's fingers in his own. Rex's are frozen, so cold that Jon worries about frostbite, and he hisses at the press of Jon's hand, but Jon doesn’t let go. “You’re safe.”

Rex trembles, breath shuddering out of him on a sound that’s almost a sob. Turns, as best he can, and Jon helps him roll over, pulls Rex right up against his chest and wraps his arms around him. Hands that are too cold to grab paw at him instead, and Rex makes a low, pained sound of frustration.

“Shh,” Jon says again, curling a hand around the back of his head, letting Rex settle fully on top of him. It’s good for him to be off the cold stone, and Jon can bear the weight. “We need to get your clothes off. May I?”

“Dinner first,” Rex says, and loses the last word on a wracking shudder. “I'm n-not that easy.”

“Maybe I'm that easy,” Jon says mildly, and Rex's choked laugh against his throat is a relief. Gently, careful of shaking limbs and overtaxed muscles, Jon eases his frozen shirt off, then carefully undoes his pants and helps Rex get them down and off completely. Once they're gone, he pulls the blankets tighter, tucking them under his own body so that there's less chance of cold air slipping in, and wraps his arms around Rex more tightly.

“Jon?” Kix asks quietly.

“Hypothermia,” Jon answers.

“Suspension,” Rex mutters against his throat, and shivers. “Feels like ‘m having a heart attack.”

Grimacing, Jon presses his palm against the muscle of Rex's back, right over his heart. Breathes out, focusing all his will on that one small thread of the Force he can reach—

It slips, and slips again, and tangles, and—

Rex twitches hard, then groans. Tight muscles go lax, and the thundering heartbeat against Jon's chest slows to something more survivable. The shivers ease, and Jon tries to touch his muscles, tries to bleed warmth and healing through them, but loses his grip on the Force the next second.

His head aches, and there’s a loud ringing in his skull, a pressure that makes him think his brain is about to liquify and leak out his ears. Jon just lies there for a long moment, trying to breathe, and then swallows a groan and strokes the prickle of Rex's short hair.

“Better?” he murmurs, but there's no answer. Just a breath against his neck, deep and soft, and Jon lets himself smile crookedly.

Apparently he can still be useful after all.

“Jon?” Kix asks again, softer this time.

“Suspension torture,” Jon says hoarsely, as loud as his bruised throat can manage, and eases the blankets down so that his face is free but they still cover Rex completely. When he glances over, there’s more food, more blankets in the other cells, but Kix is close to the barrier, watching with helplessness clear on his face. Fives hovers behind him, a hand on his shoulder like he wants to pull him away, but he doesn’t.

“Any sign of joint damage?” he asks, hands curling into fists as he stares at Rex's form under the blanket.

“The cold would hide it,” Jon says quietly. “I’ll check once he warms up.”

“And what happens when Dooku comes for _you_?” Kix says, sharp. Seems to register the words a moment later and pulls back, closing his eyes and scrubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry,” he says, more quietly. “Sorry, Jon. I just—”

“It’s okay, Kix,” Fives says soothingly, and pulls Kix back, letting the medic grab him and cling like he’s the answer to everything. He meets Jon's eyes over Kix's shoulder, an apology in his gaze, but Jon just shakes his head. It’s natural that Kix would be worried for his fellow trooper, since Rex is hurt so badly.

“Rex will be all right,” he says softly, and is sure of it. Grimly, desperately certain, because—

Well. Dooku reacted to an insult against his lineage easily enough, and Fives and Jesse were talking earlier about his reaction to Skywalker being harsh and displeased.

Those are cracks. Cracks Jon can _use_ , if he plays things right. He’s getting his Force abilities back, and—

“So,” Jesse says, eyes still fixed on Kix and expression twisted with worry. “How about that Jedi Master? The Fire-Eater?”

Jon tilts his head back against the stone, closing his eyes. His throat aches, his head is ringing, and talking is the last thing he wants to do, but—

They need a distraction. They need _something_ , and Jon can provide it.

“Knol Ven’nari,” he rasps. “She single-handedly saved all of Bothan space from bandits who were looking to conquer the worlds there.”

“ _Bandits_?” Echo repeats. “Like, a lot of them?”

Jon hums. “Wookie bandits,” he says. “A whole fleet.”

Fives whistles, low and impressed, and sinks down to the floor, pulling Kix with him. He reaches for the food, gives it a quick check and then passes it over. “And she _beat_ them? A whole fleet? By _herself_?”

Jon can't help but smile, a little crooked, a little rueful. “Knol was a force of nature,” he says. “A destructive one. When they tried to use flamethrowers and incendiary grenades on her, she taught herself how to manipulate fire with the Force and turned it back on them. No other Jedi has been able to do that.”

“I didn’t know Jedi _could_ do things like that,” Echo says. He takes the bowl Jesse passes him and pokes at the food with a skeptical expression, but starts eating a moment later. Pauses, swallowing, and then says, “And she just—decided not to teach anyone? Just kept wandering the galaxy?”

“Knol had her own ideas about legacy and the right thing to do,” Jon says, which is likely an understatement. Bothans, on the whole, tend to be subtle manipulators focused on gaining personal influence, but Knol has never bothered with such things. Doing good is her greatest focus, and she was the first one to show Jon that kindness didn’t have to look like Fay's mercy. It could be brusque, and rough, and as long as it left the world a better place, it was enough.

That’s how Jon's lived, ever since he met her. Ever since he learned. And he’s better for it, he’s sure.

The galaxy is, too, and that’s what really matters.

“Wish we could have gotten to meet her,” Jesse says wistfully, slumping back against the wall with one eye on the main door.

“I would have wanted to meet Master Fay,” Kix says quietly, tugging one of the blankets close to toss it over his and Fives's shoulders.

Fives scoffs, even as he pulls it around his shoulders with something like relief. “Speak for yourself, I want to meet the Hutt guy. He would have been wizard.”

Echo rolls his eyes, but he’s watching Jon, too. “You shouldn’t talk too much,” he says.

Immediately, Kix winces. “Sorry, Jon,” he says. “He’s right. Just—ignore me unless you need me, and rest your throat. But if anything changes with the captain…”

Jon raises a hand in acknowledgement, then slips it back under the blanket, letting the cloth cover his head again. It’s not thick enough to entirely block out the harsh light, and he can see vague shadows, the wetness on Rex's cheeks melting back into tear-tracks. Swallowing, he smooths his thumb over one, brushing it away, and Rex stirs. His eyes open, and Jon pulls his hand away, dropping it to his side again. He feels caught, guilt a sharp thing in his chest, but Rex just lets out a quiet breath and slides his icy feet under Jon's leg, shivering faintly.

“Feeling any better?” Jon asks softly, pressing his fingertips lightly to Rex's wrists. He can still feel pain, strained muscles and joints adjusting, but—less of it. All residual, rather than sharp, and the knowledge that he was actually able to heal Rex in some small way is a relief so great he can hardly breathe around it.

“Much,” Rex mutters, though he doesn’t lift his face from Jon's throat. “How long was I asleep?”

“Not even ten minutes,” Jon says, “but you're warming up. That might help.”

“Mm.” Rex turns his head, and his lashes brush Jon's neck as he closes his eyes again. “Want a vacation somewhere it never gets cold. Just hot. Like you.”

“Hot, am I,” Jon echoes, entirely bemused. Rex means temperature-wise, he’s sure, but—it still makes something warm and entirely inappropriate twist in Jon's stomach. “Something to look forward to, when the war is over.”

“War’s never over,” Rex mutters. “We’re clones.”

Jon grimaces, thumps his head back against the stone. The Sith Lord, he thinks, and it’s a wild, desperate sort of thought. If he takes out the Sith Lord, the war will end. After he gets Rex and his men out, he can focus on that. No more time on the Outer Rim, no more staying out of things. He’ll kill Dooku, and get Rex and the clones to safety, and then he’ll start digging. Nico will help. Knol will _definitely_ help. And—Fay doesn’t fight often, but he can likely convince her to make an exception for this.

He’ll kill the Sith Lord, and end the war, and then Rex and every clone who’s been forced to fight for the Republic will never have to fight again.

“You’ll get your vacation,” he promises Rex softly. “No matter what. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Thought you were a spy,” Rex confesses, the words barely audible. “Spy on us. Sorry.”

Logical, really, as far as assumptions go, and Jon isn't offended. He’d suspect Dooku of putting plants in with them, too, if he were in Rex's place.

“That’s fine,” Jon says, and splays a hand between his shoulder blades, stroking carefully over muscles that must ache abominably. Strung up in wet clothes for hours, out in the freezing wind, and the fact that Rex didn’t break is more than Jon would have expected from anyone. “I'm…suspicious.”

That gets him a hum that’s almost laughter. “Dooku thinks so too,” Rex mutters, and then, “Told him your contact was Nico. Lied. Sorry.”

Jon knows _precisely_ how little Nico and Dooku got along in the Temple, and he has to snort. “I bet that went over well.”

“He got mad,” Rex agrees, and he slides a hand down Jon's side, grips his waist tightly. It makes Jon want to twitch, but Rex's weight holds him still, and it’s almost a relief. “Didn’t tell him anything else. Swear it.”

“He wants you to think you did,” Jon says quietly. “I don’t know if you’ll remember this, but—I know you didn’t.” He can feel it in Rex's mind, brushing the very edge of his memories: stubborn, furious pride in his own resilience, a ragged _Jango would approve_ , a touch of spite to round it out. Jon approves of all of those, and he brushes Rex's hair again, tries not to shiver at the warm breath on his skin as Rex sighs in relief. He presses in further, like he’s going to crawl right into Jon's skin and settle there, and—

It’s bewildering, astonishing, but Jon finds he doesn’t object. Touch isn't something he’s ever wanted, or sought out, but this—this isn't terrible.

“Thanks,” Rex breathes. “For believing. Didn’t say anything. I _wouldn’t_.”

“I know,” Jon says, and means it. Breathes in, breathes out, and despite the ache in his head, he reaches for the Force again. If there's joint damage, or tearing in Rex's muscles, or frostbite, he _needs_ to fix it. It doesn’t matter how long it takes, or how much effort. He can do this, so he needs to. He needs to, so he _will_.

“Just sleep,” he tells Rex, and touches his mind. Doesn’t force him to sleep, doesn’t make it a suggestion, but just…cordons off a little more pain, adds a little more sensation of warmth. It makes Rex groan, relaxing into him even more, and Jon lets him, takes his weight and doesn’t move.

He can carry it for the night, or longer. That’s no problem. He’ll carry it as long as he needs to in order to get them out, and then he’ll leave, go underground, and find the Sith Lord. And even if the fight ends in tragedy, Jon won't hesitate.

It’s his duty as a Jedi, and even more than that, he owes it to Rex. Owes it to all the clones, alive and dead, but—

Rex is the one in his arms right now, and it’s hard to look past him. Hard to think of anything else, even though Jon knows he should be detached, objective. But…it’s not _possession_. He doesn’t want to possess Rex, or hold on to him in any way. Just see him happy, safe, regardless of where that is. And Jon is only Human.

Rex is here, and hurting, and nothing in the universe could keep Jon from caring for him.


	13. Chapter 13

Rex has gotten hit by transport ships and come out of it feeling better than this.

Every inch of him aches, right down to his _teeth_ , and he desperately strangles the whimper that wants to break free as he starts to shift. It’s a blatantly bad idea, and he gives up half a second into his attempt to lift his arm from the warm thing it’s lying over. Instead, he just stays perfectly still, barely daring to breathe.

There's a quiet sound, though, a shift that doesn’t come from Rex, and a hand curls around his, warm and callused. Desperately, Rex grips it in return, feeling clumsy and useless when he can barely close his fingers. They burn beneath the skin, and Rex swallows hard, forcing himself not to think about nerve damage and loss of mobility and all the things that will take him right out of the war permanently.

Anakin won't let him be decommissioned, but—

“Easy,” a hoarse voice murmurs, and a moment later the body Rex is practically plastered to moves. Rolls, carefully, and Rex tries to struggle up and give him room to get away, but a moment later those hands catch him, guide him down.

He should probably protest, but—Rex is too grateful for the warmth and the contact to even try. When Jon eases him down, Rex goes, curling into the heat of Jon's body and letting out a shuddering breath. He opens his eyes, and his face feels raw, skinned, but—that’s probably just the frostbite and the windburn.

Jon is watching him, pale eyes focused entirely on Rex, and—

Alarm cracks through Rex's chest, and he pushes up, reaches out. There's a band of bruising around Jon's throat, and Rex has seen more than enough troopers who have gotten Force-choked to know exactly what he’s looking at.

“He took you, too?” he demands, but Jon immediately shakes his head, grips Rex's shoulders and urges him to lie back down.

“I may have gotten snippy,” he says, mouth curling. His voice is so hoarse it hurts to hear, but—at least he’s still making jokes.

Snippy. Rex laughs before he can help it, and can't resist the urge to press his hand to Jon's side, beneath his shirt. There's sleek muscle under his fingertips, but more scars than any one being should have, and Rex rests his forehead against Jon's shoulder, closes his eyes.

“I want to dump Dooku in his own lake and keep him there,” he says. “You're welcome to help me, if that’s your thing.”

Jon's snort is soft, but an arm drapes over Rex's bare back, Jon's palm stroking down the line of his spine. Rex knows it’s just his imagination, but it still feels like there’s heat bleeding out of his touch, sinking into Rex's muscles and spreading out through his limbs. The ache in his fingers seems more manageable, in the face of it, and his raw skin is more ignorable.

“I'm game,” Jon says, and tilts his head back against the stone. Rex watches him, studying the line of his jaw, the sharp nose, the scars that trace up his skin, the darkness of his lashes against his cheeks. There are faint lines in his face, like pain, but—

Well. Pain seems to be the one thing Dooku isn't stingy with, so that’s probably to be expected.

Rex lets out a breath, closing his eyes again and turning his face into Jon's shirt. He feels miserable, and tired, and all he wants is his bunk on the cruiser and his men around him, safe and sound. Wants the war to end, and the clones to survive its ending, and everything to be fine in the aftermath.

Wants, a little, to stay like this and never have to move again.

Jon still doesn’t quite seem to have the same casualness with touch that another clone would; his hand is stroking Rex's back, but not moving anywhere else, and his other hand is simply resting at his side. There’s an awkwardness that makes Rex wonder how much Jon has _been_ touched, casually or otherwise, but he can't figure out how to ask.

And then, belatedly, the warmth registers. Rex picks his head up, shifts, and the blanket shifts with him. _Two_ blankets, and he knows he didn’t give Dooku anything useful, didn’t spill any information on troop movements or Anakin's missions or anything beyond the name of one long-dead Jedi master, but—

“A trick,” Jon says quietly, like he can sense the slant of Rex's thought. Though, Rex thinks wryly, his panicked breathes probably more than give that away. “He wants you to doubt.”

More mind games. Rex grits his teeth, and he drops his forehead back to Jon's chest, forcing himself not to react. He’s surprised Dooku hasn’t used more, but this one is effective enough. Most of yesterday is an excruciating blur of pain and cold and fear and anger, but Rex is already playing it all over in his head, trying to figure out if there was a moment when he broke, when he let something slip.

“Shh,” Jon murmurs, and that warm hand slides over the nape of Rex's neck, brushes through his hair. Rex can't help a faint shiver, then winces as too many muscles burn in protest. Instantly, Jon's fingers tighten faintly, grip, and he says, “All you told Dooku was that Nico Diath was my contact.”

Rex swallows. He’s not calling it a lie, and he’s not saying anything about it; if Dooku can hear them, it might be enough to convince him that Rex was telling the truth. A bargaining chip, maybe. They don’t have many, don’t have _any_ they can spend without Rex ending up in a Republic cell somewhere later, but—a fake one will do, since Dooku doesn’t need to know that.

“Sorry,” he says, and means it. It’s clear from his stories that Jon respected the nomadic Masters, and using one of their names probably wasn’t the best thing Rex could have done.

Jon just shakes his head, expression calm, steady. “It’s fine,” he says, soft. His hand slides down t Rex's back again, and Rex sighs at the faint pressure over aching muscles, leaving the impression of lingering warmth and a lack of pain behind. It’s psychosomatic, but—at this point Rex will take it gladly.

“At least we got some blankets out of it,” he says, a little wry, and Jon snorts.

“There’s food, too,” he says softly. “Whenever you feel ready for it.”

Rex grimaces. He can't tell if he’s hungry, and doesn’t want to even think about sitting up enough to put things in his mouth and swallow, but it’s probably a good idea. “You’re going to have to help me up,” he says honestly, and Jon nods, hands settling on Rex's sides. He gently shifts Rex over until he can slide out from under him, and Rex settles on the cold stone floor with a groan, then gingerly tries to get an arm underneath himself. Instantly there are hands on him, helping, supporting, and Rex hisses between his teeth as he forces aching muscles to function.

Even just sitting up leaves him winded, trembling, and when Jon wraps the blanket around him he takes the warmth gratefully. The other one Jon spreads over his lap, tucking it around him, and Rex can't remember the last time he felt so useless. He grimaces, leaning back against the wall, and says, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Jon says quietly, not even looking up. “You did this for me.”

Rex takes a breath, remembering Jon in the grip of whatever drug Dooku gave him. Thinks of the flinches, the avoidance, the hunted curl of his shoulders, and says a little helplessly, “But you don’t like being grabbed, and I've been grabbing you all night.”

“You know,” Jesse says, pointed and loud enough to carry, “this conversation could be taken a lot of different ways that would lose me the betting pool.”

Rex rolls his eyes, even as Jon ducks his head with a sound of amusement. “What pot?” he asks, not entirely sure that he wants to know but also not willing to suffer in ignorance.

Grinning at him, Jesse leans back on his hands. “Whether or not you're sleeping with the general,” he says cheerfully, and Rex chokes.

“Jesse,” Jon says, but the amusement in his voice takes any impact out of the reprimand. He puts a hand on Rex's back as he coughs, and Rex bats him away, face a little too hot even for frostbite.

“The general has a _girlfriend_ ,” he hisses at Jesse, and he _knows_ that the GAR tends to have one of the most terrifyingly fast rumor mills in existence, knows that the fact that Senator Amidala and Anakin have a _thing_ isn't any sort of secret among the brothers of the 501st or 212th, and probably several dozen other battalions, so it can't be that no one knows better. It’s just that all of Rex's brothers are _assholes_.

Fives is laughing, if quietly so as not to disturb the mound of blankets next to him, the top of Kix's lightning-bolt covered head just visible under them. “Come on, Captain,” he says, gleeful. “You mean you have the general aren’t having a passionate affair? Aren’t both knocking boots with Senator Amidala whenever she’s around?”

“I don’t care that you're an ARC now,” Rex tells him. “I'm going to have you scrubbing decks with the smallest brush I can possibly find.”

Jesse snickers, leaning against the wall, and halfway in his lap, Echo stirs and makes a sound of annoyance before settling again. “Come on, Captain, it’s just a bet.”

“You're all going to lose your extra rations and it won't be my fault,” Rex retorts, and takes the bowl Jon presses into his hands. There's still a trace of warmth to it, and he cups his fingers around it for a long moment, just breathing in the smell of something that isn't ration bars. It’s ironic that this is going to be the closest to real food he’s had in months, and it’s being served in Dooku's dungeon.

“Slowly,” Jon says quietly, and there's still amusement in his face, but it’s half-hidden, like he doesn’t think he can show it. Rex's fingers itch with the urge to reach out and tip his chin up, get a clearer look at his expression when it’s bright and something besides grim or intense. It makes him look down, and he focuses on his food, on his first sip of something brothy and at least lukewarm.

“Dooku come back since?” he asks, and Jon shakes his head. After a moment, he sits back, settling on his knees in a position that makes Rex pause, but—

He can't tell why. Can't think what it reminds him of, and after a moment dismisses it as a stray thought.

“My turn next, then,” Jon says with a touch of sardonic humor, watching Rex, and Rex grimaces. He’s having enough trouble holding the bowl; there's no way he’s going to be useful in any sort of resistance, even if they did try to fight their way out somehow. But the idea of just resigning themselves to all of this—

“Maybe he’ll finally realize there are more of us than just the captain,” Fives says, and it’s light, but the look in his eyes is dark, close to angry.

Rex glances at Jon, and Jon looks back, and Rex doesn’t have to be a Jedi to know that Jon agrees wholeheartedly with what Rex is sure of. If Dooku takes one of the others, the only way they're coming back is as a body. Rex is valuable, of a higher rank, and Jon is an independent agent; if Dooku does kill them, it will be a deliberate choice, and there will likely be warning, leadup.

In Dooku's eyes, Echo, Fives, Jesse, and Kix are all cannon fodder, and he won't hesitate to murder them just to make a point.

At the very least, Jon knows, understands the stakes. Rex isn't sure that he can do anything, if things come to that, but—like with the other day, when he stepped in and told Rex to pick him instead of one of the troopers. He knows the risk, and he’s willing to let himself be tortured to keep Rex's men safe.

Rex's breath tangles in his throat, and the bowl slips. Instantly, before it can fall, there’s another set of hands there, catching it and taking it, setting it aside. Then, gently, Jon shifts closer, catching Rex's hands between his own. It aches, a little, the bend of joints that don’t want to curl, the pressure against raw skin, and Rex hisses. He doesn’t try to jerk away, though; the heat of Jon's hands is a relief, and as his thumbs gently slide across the backs of Rex's hands, he must hit some important pressure points, because Rex's hands tingle faintly. Some of the ache eases, or maybe Rex is just distracted by the calluses on Jon's fingers, the look on his face as he bows his head over their tangled hands.

“Easy,” he says, soft. “Everything is going to hurt for a while, and if you strain yourself, it will just hurt worse. Muscle strain takes no prisoners.”

Rex snorts, forces himself to tip his head back so he’s not staring at the line of Jon's dark hair against his brow. “Have experience?” he asks, and closes his eyes, focusing on the light pressure as Jon's careful touches leave the backs of his hands, slide up his fingers. It doesn’t make them feel any more capable, but some of the hot burn seems to fade away.

“Yes.” Jon's voice is just a little wry. “My m—the woman who raised me was a great believer in pushing your body to its limits, and then past them.”

With a grimace, Rex thinks of a couple of the trainers on Kamino, who were exactly the same. “Least the trainers didn’t leave us strung up like a karking fresh kill,” he mutters, and Jon makes a sound of quiet sympathy, though his focus stays on Rex's hands. Carefully, he turns them over, then gently spreads Rex's fingers.

It’s almost startling how little it hurts.

“What are you doing?” Rex asks, bewildered, and flexes them a few times, testing his range of movement. It’s bewilderingly normal, and the skin isn't quite so waxy-looking anymore.

“Massage, for the stiff muscles,” Jon says, and starts long, gentle strokes of his thumbs across Rex's palms, thumbs digging in lightly. Rex hisses at a wash of prickling heat, but doesn’t pull his hands away, and Jon glances up at his face like he’s checking for pain and then keeps going.

After a moment, the tingles fade, and Rex breathes out a sound that would be a groan if it were even slightly louder. The last bits of pain are being eaten away but steady pressure and warmth, and he curls fingers that minutes ago couldn’t bend without aching right to the bone and then asks, “Can you do that everywhere?”

It’s mostly a joke; Rex means it to be funny, to make Jon smile again. But Jon glances up at him, and his expression is serious. “I’ll need to do it on your arms at the very least,” he says, and reaches up, drawing two fingertips down the line of Rex's arm with a faint frown, like he’s assessing something. “Your legs and shoulders, too.”

“If you’re willing,” Rex says, watching him, and he still hurts, but—

The lines of pain in Jon's face have gotten deeper, and it’s a stark reminder that he hasn’t recovered from his own injuries yet, either.

“Massage?” a rough voice asks from the other cell, and Rex glances up, slightly startled, to find Kix sitting up and watching them, blankets pooled in his lap. “It’s helping? With _frostbite_?”

“Muscle strain,” Jon says, pitching his voice so that Kix will hear him despite the hoarseness of his voice. “There are pressure points that help with pain, and the massage is for the stiffness.”

“Oh,” Kix says, surprised. “If you know all about that—did you ever study to be a doctor?”

Something like alarm flickers over Jon's face for an instant before it’s buried, and he shakes his head quickly. “I picked it up,” he says. “Just enough to keep myself going.”

The scars, Rex thinks, cold. Of course he’d have some medical knowledge after all of those, especially if he were the only one treating them.

“Of course.” From the grim note in Kix's voice, he’s thinking the same thing, and Rex meets his eyes across the gap. Sees the exhaustion there, the helplessness, the anger, and tries for a smile even if it comes out crooked.

Kix doesn’t look impressed by the attempt, but he smiles back a little, looking Rex over carefully. “How are you feeling, Captain?” he asks. “And—”

“Don’t say fine,” Fives and Jesse chorus together. Their grins are promptly ruined when Kix grabs Fives by the ear, dragging him down as he yelps, and gives Jesse a look the _promises_ they're going to have words about this.

“Please _don’t_ say fine,” Kix says politely, though Fives is still complaining and squirming as he tries to bat Kix's hand away. “I'm not going to believe you if you do.”

Rex snorts, shifting the blanket out of Jon's way as he takes Rex's right arm and starts rubbing gentle circles over the inside of his wrist. “I'm better,” he says, which seems like a safe enough compromise, even if Kix doesn’t look pleased by it. Pretty much only a full-body exam is going to please Kix at this point, anyway. “Whatever Jon is doing, it helps. A lot.”

“Good,” Kix says quietly. “Jon, your throat—are you still breathing all right?”

Jon doesn’t answer, and his head dips for an instant before he catches himself, like he almost collapsed forward into Rex's lap. Rex jerks a hand out to catch him, and—

It doesn’t hurt.

The realization is so startling that Rex almost can't manage to catch Jon, nearly misses. He fumbles as Jon lists forward like a drunk, practically folding into Rex's lap, and only just grabs him before he can go spilling to the floor. He’s still clutching Rex's right arm, and something wet splatters Rex's skin. That’s even more alarming, and Rex drags him mostly upright with a hand splayed across his chest.

“Jon?” he demands, and moves, and it aches but more like he’s been running a lot, less like Dooku set fire to every one of his muscles beneath his skin. “Jon, what’s wrong?”

He pulls his arm back a little, Jon's hands still curled around his wrist, and freezes.

Bright red droplets, scattered across his skin.

“ _Jon_ ,” he says, alarmed now, and gets a hand on his cheek, pressing his head up as gently as he can. Jon's eyes are closed, and there’s blood dripping from his nose, running down his face. His breathing is still steady, slow but deep, and Rex shakes his shoulder as hard as he dares. “Jon!”

“Almost,” Jon says, rasping, and doesn’t let go.

“Your nose is bleeding,” Rex says, not sure how worried he should be.

“ _What_?” Kix says, he’s instantly on his feet, releasing Fives to approach the bars. “Jon, look at me.”

The sharp command in Kix's voice is the one that he only pulls out when he’s especially worried, and Rex feels a sharp kick somewhere in his chest, leans in to get an arm around Jon's waist and bodily turns him to face Kix, grabbing his shoulder when he sways. Instantly, Jon twitches, and Rex loosens his grip, lightens his touch, but doesn’t let go.

Slowly, deliberately, Jon releases his arm and lets out a breath, then opens his eyes. They're dazed, unfocused, and after a bare moment he closes them again.

“Headache,” he whispers, so soft that Rex can hardly hear it. His expression twists, and after less than five seconds he has his eyes open again, looking at Rex. “Captain, feel better?”

“What did you _do_?” Rex asks, bewildered, because he does. Still achy, still a little cold, but—so better it’s not even comparable.

Jon doesn’t answer. He just waves a hand, then slumps forward, hiding his face. Rex can still see drops of blood falling on the stone, though, and he curls an arm around Jon's shoulders, glances up at Kix.

The look on his face is more than enough to make Rex's blood run cold.

“Jon,” Kix says, firm. “Can you speak? Please, just say something.”

“I'm fine,” Jon manages.

That doesn’t help the look. Rex winces, pulling Jon a little closer, and asks Kix, “What is it? From the drugs, maybe?”

“Maybe.” Kix doesn’t sound convinced, and he doesn’t sound happy, either. “If he’s bleeding in his brain, or if he had a miniature stroke, that could explain the sudden dizziness and headache.”

Neither of those sounds like a good option, and Rex takes a breath, brushing Jon's hair back so he can see his face. There's blood trickling down his skin, and his breathing is still deep and steady, but—almost too much so. Like he’s deliberately controlling it, even though he can hardly sit up straight.

“Jon,” Rex says, helpless and hating it.

With a quiet huff, Jon lifts his head, gives Rex a small, crooked smile. “Give me a minute,” he says. “I just—need to sleep it off. Aftereffect of the concussion.”

Rex glances over at Kix, who hesitates, then nods. “I can't—there's nothing we can do,” he says. “Even if something major _is_ wrong. But just—watch his breathing.”

Well. That’s not great, but it’s still enough to start with, so Rex nods. He reaches around, carefully getting his hands under Jon's elbows, and helps him shift forward without falling. Silently, Jon slumps to the floor on his side, then drapes an arm over his face, and—

Rex hesitates. Watches him, for a moment, and considers himself, and then asks, “All right if I join you?”

There's a pause, and then Jon lifts his arm, rolling over slightly to look at Rex. Even with all of the blood on his face, it’s easy to see the concern that rises.

“Still hurt?” he asks.

“Just sore,” Rex answers, and then waves a hand at his bare chest. “I'm a little cold, though.”

It takes a moment, but Jon's mouth quirks faintly. “I thought you didn’t do that kind of thing without dinner first,” he says.

Before he can help it, Rex snorts. “You're just so pretty, though,” he says, perfectly dry. “How can I help myself?”

Jon laughs, low and rasping and ragged, head ducked to hide it. Pleased, Rex smiles back, then uncoils the blankets he’s wrapped in and tosses them both over Jon. Careful not to jar him, he slides beneath them as well, settling against the curve of Jon's back. And—

This is mostly because he wants to keep an eye on Jon. But he’ll admit that it wasn’t a lie to say that he’s cold; that’s a good part of the ache, the feeling that he’ll never be warm again, that his bones are ice and nothing will help them. Jon is practically hot, though, and Rex curls close, just the way they were when he woke up in pain. There's almost no pain now, though, and that shouldn’t be possible, but it’s true.

Jon did something, Rex thinks, watching as Jon tugs the blankets up to cover himself completely. Carefully, deliberately, he slips his arm under Jon's head, feels the rush of his breath as he sighs in relief, and then the flicker of his own relief as Jon's head settles on his arm. He doesn’t move as Rex leans in, resting his forehead against the curve of Jon's skull, but there's a low huff, and then he says, “Move if you get sore.”

“Still dizzy?” Rex counters mildly, and there's a pause before Jon snorts. Rex chuckles, too, and it’s not funny, or it shouldn’t be—they're both hurt, both suffering, and they might very well die here in this cell, but—

Well. Laughing isn't going to hurt anything, and it might even help.

“A hell of a pair,” Jon rasps, and Rex—

Rex thinks, like a revelation, _Oh_.

Thinks, a little, that Jon might actually be right.


	14. Chapter 14

The security images are half-obscured by the edge of a building, the cameras at the very edge of their range, but the footage is clear enough. Thire watches it again, looping endlessly, as Fox confronts a hooded Bothan woman in dark clothes, as something distracts him, as the hooded Bothan lunges. She grabs him, gets him in a hold, and then—

A hand, dark-skinned, probably Human. Someone reaches in from behind the bulk of the building, and Fox goes limp like he just got hit with a tranq.

It doesn’t just end there. The people on the bridge obviously have some sort of conversation as the woman pulls Fox up over her shoulders, and Thire grits his teeth, watching her laugh, watching Fox dangle there limp and helpless. There's a pause, and she cocks her head, looking up, at the same moment that another figure steps into the frame. Thire can't make out gender, can only guess at species, but the person is tall and straight-backed and completely covered in a long dark cloak. They lean in, touching Fox’s dangling head, and then straighten. The Bothan says something, and they say something back, and with another laugh she turns, gets a hand on the railing of the footbridge, and vaults it, tumbling down into Coruscant’s undercity in a move that most people wouldn’t dare even with a jetpack.

The cloaked person doesn’t follow immediately. They turn, looking towards the far end of the bridge, and Thire can just make out a Twi’lek man frozen there, watching the tableau. Tenses, ready for it—

Just like every other time he’s watched it, the cloaked figure raises a hand, sweeps it through the air in a wrenchingly familiar gesture, and turns. They leap the railing as well, tumbling downward, and the Twi’lek stays precisely where he is for a long, long moment, face unnervingly blank, then keeps moving. His mouth is moving, speaking even though there's no one there to hear, and Thire has had the whole thing analyzed a hundred times, knows precisely what it is he’s saying.

_I saw nothing, I will report nothing, I will continue with my night like normal and forget all of this._

It could be an agreed-upon phrase, but Thire has served with Jedi. He knows what it looks like when someone plants a Force suggestion in another person’s mind.

“Sir?” Stone asks grimly, and Thire closes his eyes and waves the holoscreen away before the footage can loop yet again.

“Sweep the area,” he orders. “Expand the perimeter and send a squad into the undercity to see if anyone will tell us anything.”

“Yes, sir.” Stone doesn’t ask where Thire is planning to go, just pulls his helmet on, steps back, and then turns, jogging back to his lieutenants. Thire watches him pass on the orders, then heads for the speeders that are waiting by the edge of the buildings, fingers clenched tight around the projector. It’s easy enough to commandeer the closest speeder, then turn it back towards the heart of the district. Not the Senate building—they’ve already locked out Fox’s personal code and set the systems to alert them to any use of it—but beyond it.

Thire watches the spires of the Jedi Temple rise out of the press of buildings as he approaches, and really, really hopes his favor’s still worth something.

The Processional Way outside the Temple is quiet, and there are only a handful of speeders in the public lots. Thire leaves his there, as close to the Temple as he can get, and covers the last stretch on foot, mounting the stairs with a wary eye trained on the four statues of Jedi Masters that crown the top. They don’t loom, aren’t intimidating, but they _should_ be, and Thire's never quite felt comfortable beneath the weight of their eyes.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to linger there for very long. The doors of the Temple stand open, the way they always do, and Thire passes through the archway and into the calm, sunlit interior of the Temple. The entrance hall is full of light, vast columns standing in long rows, the main path wide and scattered with people. With _Jedi_ , and Thire pauses a handful of paces in, watching a pair of teenagers laugh together, a group of older Masters with lined faces and bright eyes argue cheerfully over the book one is carrying, reading as they walk. A Zabrak Knight nods to him, slipping past him as she crosses from one side of the hall to the other, and a Mon Calamari in Healer’s robes smiles at him as she passes, expression gentle.

It’s like stepping into another world, Thire thinks, a little grimly. The Jedi Temple is a place that’s self-contained, a homeworld for an order that’s built on foundlings and shared beliefs. Most Jedi he’s met embrace their heritage, the traditions of their species, but it comes second to their purpose as Jedi, and that’s…something admirable, maybe. Something unnerving, mostly. Too close to the clones and what they are, and what they’ve made themselves over the years.

Their trainers on Kamino were Mandalorians, handpicked by Jango Fett himself. All great warriors, all great teachers, and they did their jobs well, but it never sat well with them, that the clones were going to serve with the Jedi. Thire heard enough of the history to know that the Mandalorians are supposed to be the enemies of the Jedi Order, going back thousands of years. Thire had done his own study into Mandalorian culture, wanting to know more than fighting styles and Mando’a, which was what the trainers provided, and he’s _liked_ it, had wanted that kind of life for himself. Had thought, secretly, that maybe he wouldn’t get along with the Jedi very well, either, even if he’d serve beside them without complaint.

And then he’d met them, and seen all the similarities, all the echoes across their peoples. It had shaken him, sharp and bone-deep, because there were so _many_.

The clones were made for the Jedi, but sometimes Thire thinks about how alike they are and wonders, a little, if somehow, some way, echoing across time, the Jedi were made for them, too.

“Commander Thire?”

Thire twitches, turns, and then takes a sharp step back. There's a clone approaching from a side path through the pillars, out of armor, but Thire recognizes the scar that slants down from his hairline across his left eye, then over his cheek and all the way to his jaw. He’s limping a little, leaning heavily on the shoulder of a little boy in Jedi robes, hair on one side caught in a stubby padawan braid. For a moment, Thire almost opens his mouth, almost asks why a clone commander is dressed in a loose cream tunic and breeches that look like they were pulled out of a Jedi's closet, but at the last moment he remembers himself and nods instead.

“Commander Grey. Looking a little rough,” he says, and takes a step back to give the pair room to step onto the main walkway. Salutes to the padawan, and says, “Commander.”

Grey snorts, hand tightening a little on the boy’s shoulder. “It was a rough mission,” he says. “Commander Dume, this is Commander Thire.”

General Billaba’s padawan, then. “Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Thire says formally, and flicks a glance at the boy, who gives him a smile. It’s bright and a little shy and very curious, and his eyes linger on the red of Thire's armor, three shades darker than the red Billaba’s men normally wear. He looks like he wants to ask ten different questions, but doesn’t know where to start.

He’s _tiny_ , Thire thinks, and wants to swallow. Clone cadets his size aren’t even allowed to touch a blaster yet. And yet he’s a commander, on the front lines, meant to lead whole squads into battle.

This war doesn’t spare any of the Jedi, even the youngest.

“Here on duty, Thire?” Grey asks, and Dume tugs at his arm a little.

“Grey,” he says. “You already went too far. Master Depa's going to yell at you if you don’t sit down.”

Grey groans, aggrieved, but limps towards a bench set back among the pillars, and Thire follows, bemused. “She won't _yell_ ,” Grey says, though he doesn’t try to resist when Dume pulls him down. “She’ll just smile sadly at me and tell me to take care of myself.”

“Isn't that _worse_?” Dume asks, shades of horror in his voice, and Grey pauses, considering. A moment later he pulls a face that’s entirely agreement, and Dume snickers.

“It doesn’t matter, since she won't,” Grey informs him. “Because we’re not going to tell her.” Dume looks skeptical, but Grey determinedly turns his gaze on Thire, and asks, “Here on business?”

Thire grimaces, then pulls his helmet off and tucks it under his arm. “For the Guard,” he confirms. “I'm looking for General Vos.”

Dume makes a sound of disbelief, then immediately claps a hand to his mouth like that will hide it. Brows rising, Grey casts him a glance, and Dume flushes, then says, “Sorry, Commanders. But—Master _Vos_ is a general too?”

Spoken, Thire thinks with rueful amusement, like someone who’s met Quinlan Vos. “All Jedi are generals,” he says, which is the most diplomatic thing he can manage. Dume grins at him like he hears the thought underneath, and Thire gives him a rueful smile in return. “I was hoping I could speak with him. Do you know if he’s in the Temple?”

“I thought he was still on Nar Shaddaa,” Grey says, frowning, and Thire swallows a curse—

“No, he’s here,” Dume says. “He’s meditating with my grandmaster. They were in the Room of a Thousand Fountains.”

Grandmaster, Thire thinks, bemused. His Master’s former Master? He hadn’t realized that Jedi used lineages like that, and it’s amusing.

Then he realizes with a sharp shock that if Depa Billaba is Dume’s Master, his grandmaster can't be anyone other than High General Mace kriffing Windu.

Grey chuckles, apparently able to read his consternation on his face. “The Room’s on this level, right?” he asks Dume, who nods quickly, and Grey braces himself on Dume’s shoulder again, then levers himself back to his feet with a groan. “I can at least make it that far. Come on.”

“Master Depa won't let you out of bed for a _week_ when you get back to the rooms,” Dume says pointedly, and Grey flushes right to the tips of his ears.

“ _Caleb_ ,” he says, and Caleb rolls his eyes.

“I'm not _stupid_ ,” he says, and Grey closes his eyes like he’s praying for patience, or maybe like he wants to throw himself out of the closest window.

Grinning, Thire steps up to take Grey’s other arm, and tells Caleb, “I bet people usually say you're too smart for your own good.”

Caleb grins right back at him. “Sometimes,” he says. “Usually Master Mace.”

“It could stand to be said more often,” Grey says, resigned, but he ruffles Caleb's short hair with a smile, and Thire has to look away to hide his amusement. Grey always had a reputation as a particular hardass on Kamino, pigheaded and perfectionist by nature, and Thire knows what happened to his battalion, knows the story of what happened when General Billaba faced Grievous, but—

Looking at him now, even injured from his last mission, it’s good. He’s smiling more easily, and despite the scar, he looks happy. Looks at ease. General Billaba’s been good for him.

“Sharing rooms, huh,” he says studiously, and grins at the narrow, almost alarmed glare Grey levels at him. “That why you look like you're wearing General Billaba’s clothes?”

Grey growls, but before he can say anything, Caleb pipes up, “They’re Master Mace's! He gave them to Grey so he could be more comfortable in the Temple.”

Thire's brows hit his hairline, and Grey is very determinedly not meeting his eyes. _General Windu_ gave him clothes. General Windu realized what was going on between his padawan and her commander and acknowledged it to the point of providing things so Grey could keep staying in her rooms. That’s…something.

Then Thire realizes belatedly that General Windu is a good half a foot taller than the any clone, and about half the width, and any clothes floating around his closet _shouldn’t_ be able to fit Grey. He chokes, and Grey makes a sound of tired agreement.

“Neyo?” Thire demands, because that’s the only vod it could possibly be, but— _Neyo_.

“I'm trying not to think about it,” Grey says, pained.

“About what? The fact that that shirt was probably on _High General Windu's bedroom floor_ —”

Grey stomps hard on his foot, and even if he’s dressed like a Jedi on vacation, he’s still wearing boots. Thire loses the end of that sentence on a loud yelp, trips, and almost takes Grey down with him. Caleb is the only thing that saves them; he grabs Grey’s belt, plants his feet, and hauls them both back upright.

“Grey,” he says, distressed, “you're supposed to be _careful_!”

“I am, I am,” Grey huffs, hopping as he tries to catch his balance. Thire halfway maybe considers shoving him all the way over, but takes one look at Caleb's worried face and catches him instead, hauling him back upright. With a grimace, Grey slings an arm over his shoulders, leaning on him heavily, which is mostly an apology. Thire rolls his eyes in return, which is mostly an acceptance, and helps him stagger out of the huge hall and down a handful of narrower, quieter corridors. They wind towards the side of the Temple, getting higher and wider as they do, until Thire turns a corner and is suddenly standing in front of a huge set of glass doors, clouded with condensation. Beyond them, he can see green, and the sound of water is obvious even through the doors.

Thire stares for a long moment, because there’s a _greenhouse_ in the middle of the Temple, and then slants a glance at Caleb. “ _Room_ of a Thousand Fountains?”

Caleb shrugs. “It’s technically one big room,” he says. “Master Mace likes to meditate on the first level, so we can enter here.” He ducks out from under Grey’s arm, going to haul one of the doors open, and Thire steers Grey through, minding the step up onto stone that’s edged with moss. The whole place is humid and warm, so full of plants that the air feels green, and there are more types than Thire could name in a year, even with access to the holonet. Fountains rise from the greenery, marking small paths that split off from the main one, little alcoves that sport Jedi seated, meditating.

There's a class of younglings at the first large split in the path, a Togruta crèchemaster leading them in basic meditation. He has a pair of younglings on his lap, six more in a tight circle around him, and they're all murmuring something, a mantra, low enough that Thire can't hear it over the burble of the fountain next to them. He pauses even so, watching them, and—he had nursery duty often, back on Kamino. Babies, even cloned babies, need touch, and the Kaminoans weren’t about to provide it, so they had the older clones take over the task. Thire, out of all his squadmates, never minded it. Misses it, almost.

He’d told Fox, once, that after the war he’d like to teach kids to defend themselves. Fox is the only one he’s ever said that to.

(Fox is gone, because someone snatched him when he was investigating _Thire's case_ , and if something happened to him, Thire doesn’t know how he’s ever going to face himself again.)

The grip of Grey’s hand on his shoulder is grounding, sympathetic. “Come on, vod,” he says, and Thire turns away, lets Caleb led them deeper into the Room. There's a kick in his chest, like a heartbeat that’s a little too hard, but he’s close to his one hope of a solution and not about to stop now.

“Over here,” Caleb says, and scrambles down a set of moss-covered steps, then over a small footbridge with a stream trickling through the green-edged rocks beneath it. An archway is crowned with trailing vines blooming with white flowers, and tall ferns edge the space beyond it. As they pick their way up the faint slope, Thire can make out voices, low and steady and recognizable.

That kicks, too, but like relief instead of fear.

“Master Mace!” Caleb calls, and picks up a run, scrambling over a lip of sandy-colored stone and running lightly along the edge of it in a way that catapults Thire's heart right into his throat. Beside him, Grey twitches, too, clearly feeling the same, and then consciously pulls himself back with a grimace as Caleb leaps out into the small pool, landing on a flat stone that rises above the water’s surface. There's a thick layer of lilies, a flash of fish scales beneath, and on another flat stone Mace Windu and Quinlan Vos sit knee to knee, legs crossed beneath them. At Caleb's call, Mace lifts his head, half-turning, and an instant later Caleb hits the edge of his stone, slides a step, and collides with Mace's back.

“Kriff,” Thire mutters, because that’s the _High General_ , even more so than any of the other Council members, and Grey sighs.

“You get used to it,” he says wryly, and lifts a hand when Caleb points towards them and Mace turns to look. Mace nods in return, then rises, and rests a hand on Caleb's shoulder for a long moment. Caleb smiles up at him, bright, and—

Mace doesn’t quite smile back, but Thire is absolutely certain he’s never seen the man’s face look quite that soft before.

“Commanders,” Mace says, pitched to carry, and offers Quinlan a hand up. He rises easily, brushing his dreadlocks back, and takes a leap from standing that carries him all the way across the pool. Flips, drops, and lands in a crouch right in front of Thire and Grey, then gives them both an easy grin as he straightens.

“Thire,” he says, and Thire can never tell where the line between cockiness and actual humor falls with him. “Mister Billaba.”

Grey scoffs, though the tips of his ears are red again. “General Vos,” he says pointedly.

There's a soft sigh, and Mace leaps lightly back to solid ground, Caleb right behind him. “Grey,” he says pointedly. “I believe Depa was looking for you.”

Grey winces faintly. “I had Caleb with me,” he says. “Just wanted a walk.”

“She’s going to laugh at you when you're too sore to move,” Mace tells him, with the air of someone who knows from experience, and turns his gaze on Thire. “Commander Thire, is there a problem with the Guard?”

Thire hesitates, because he’s only here for Quinlan, but—Mace is the Master of the Order. If anyone needs to know, it’s him. “Yes, sir,” he says, and produces the holoprojecter from his belt pouch. “Commander Fox was on an undercover mission in one of the lower districts the other night, and someone abducted him.”

Quinlan's eyes widen, and he takes a step forward. “Fox?” he demands. “Where? By _who_?”

“We just verified it,” Thire says, and swallows, looking up to meet Quinlan's eyes. “I wanted to call in that favor, sir.”

Quinlan rolls his eyes. “It’s Fox,” he retorts. “You don’t need to waste a favor on that. I’ll find him just for the look on his face when he realizes his least favorite Jedi was the one to rescue him.”

Thire has his own personal doubts about the _least favorite Jedi_ parts, but he keeps those to himself. “I’ll take you to the bridge where it happened,” he says. “Your, uh, thing might be able to pick up more than we can.”

“Psychometry,” Quinlan says, a little amused, though there’s still a slant to his mouth that’s entirely unhappy. “You could have commed me—”

Thire shakes his head, stepping away from Grey and holding up the projector. “I wanted to get another opinion on this,” he says. “From a Council member.”

Mace raises a brow, but inclines his head. “I can assess it,” he says. “Here?”

“Yes, sir.” Thire activates the projector, letting the security footage play again. He doesn’t watch it, but keeps his eyes on Mace and Quinlan. Quinlan's expression is dark, and it gets darker as he watches the Bothan grab Fox, haul him back against her. When Fox collapses, gets tossed over her shoulders to dangle like a dead thing, his expression goes _arctic_.

“Replay the beginning,” Mace says, just as the recording flickers to darkness. Thire does as asked, and Mace watches Fox approach the Bothan, watches her stop, turn, face him, hooded head cocked. His eyes narrow faintly, and he says, “The commander identifies himself, but not by name. He breaks cover to stop her, but he isn't willing to give her the leverage of knowing his position as the commander of the whole Guard.”

That wasn’t something Thire caught. He hesitates, but—that means Fox thought she was _very_ dangerous, and knew there was a chance he might not be able to subdue her, even before the second stranger appeared.

“He never commed for backup,” Thire says helplessly. “He broke cover and chased her, and…”

“He thought it was dire enough that he couldn’t even spare that long, for fear of losing her,” Mace says, and glances over at Quinlan. “Quin?”

“That’s a Force-user,” Quinlan says flatly, eyes still on the holo as the stranger’s hand comes into view. “And a _good_ one. He touched that Twi’lek man’s mind from a good hundred meters away, and he forced Fox unconscious in _seconds_. That takes someone who’s good at the mental bullshit. I can think of maybe twenty Jedi who could manage it like that, and most of them are deployed.”

Mace makes a quiet sound of agreement, folding his hands behind his back. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Commander Thire,” he says seriously. “This is…alarming.”

Thire stares at him, a thread of suspicion rising. Mace looks grim, gaze still on the footage, but—

“You're not surprised,” he says, and Grey goes still behind him. “There being a Force-user that strong—you knew.”

“Suspected,” Mace corrects, and trades glances with Quinlan. “Caleb, help Grey back to your apartment. Depa is looking for both of you.”

“Yes, Master Mace,” Caleb says, though he looks desperately curious. He takes Grey’s arm, smiling at Thire, and Grey nods, clapping a hand to Thire's armored shoulder as he passes. In a moment, they’ve vanished back down the path, and Thire looks from Quinlan to Mace, trepidation rising.

“Sirs?” he asks.

“There is a Sith on Coruscant,” Mace says plainly. “Somewhere. We’ve found no trace of them beyond the edges of their presence, but we’re entirely certain that they are somewhere on the planet. If Commander Fox was taken by the Sith, it’s likely part of a larger scheme.”

“An _accelerating_ scheme,” Quinlan says, scowling. “They're usually smarter than this. Or at least more subtle. But taking Fox—”

Thire swallows. “It was supposed to be me,” he confesses, and curls his fingers more tightly around the projector. “I had a day of leave scheduled, but I wanted to take the night before, too, and Fox approved it. _I_ was supposed to be the one out that night, and then have the day off, and no one would have noticed I was missing for—hours.”

He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. It’s the perfect setup to snatch someone high-ranking in the Guard and do _something_ to them, especially if it really is some kind of Sith. Thire is one of the higher-ranking Guard members, but not so high that his absence would immediately be noted. Whoever it was, they planned this well. Or—they would have, if it hadn’t been Fox instead of Thire that they snatched.

“I'm glad you're safe, Commander.” Mace inclines his head to him. “Fox’s abduction is an urgent matter, and with this information I’ll call a council session immediately. Quinlan—”

Quinlan grins, all teeth. “Going with Thire,” he agrees. “I’ll see what I can pick up on the Sith.”

“Potential Sith,” Mace says, but doesn’t otherwise argue. He takes the projector that Thire hands him, then nods and sweeps past him, moving quickly.

In his wake, Quinlan claps a hand to Thire's shoulder and pushes him lightly back towards the entrance. “Looks like we’re a team this time, Commander,” he says, and Thire rolls his eyes a little.

“Make sure you keep up, sir,” he says, because Jedi or not, no one is going to keep him from finding Fox.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in this chapter for a pretty explicit panic attack _and_ a cliffhanger.

It’s probably Jesse's fault, or the fault of the extra warmth, or because he suddenly feels so much better, but Rex's dreams are soft bare skin and rough scars and hard muscle pressed up against him. There’s nothing certain, no telling where or when or why, but he dreams of muggy heat and something beautiful and tumbling a body over, laughter low and breathless and ragged against his own skin. Dreams of his mouth on someone else’s, someone else’s cries, getting his hands in dark hair and—

Pale eyes, staring up at him as a pretty mouth gasps for breath, and Rex takes that mouth, rolls them over and digs his fingers into skin—

Wakes, frozen in the too-bright lights, with want churning in his stomach.

He’s half-hard in his loose pants, the edges of sleep riding too close for one long moment. Jon must have turned in the night; he’s curled against Rex's chest, tucked up against him like he doesn’t have a good handful of inches on Rex when they're upright, and one hand is curled in the cloth over Rex's hip. Dark lashes rest against his cheeks, the slant of those high cheekbones just as arresting right now as when he’s awake, and he’s not classically handsome, but Rex can't help but look at his face and…enjoy it. It’s an interesting face. He likes looking.

The realization is something that’s equal parts bewildering and unnerving and _gutting_.

Taking a breath, Rex raises a hand, brushing his fingertips through Jon's hair. It’s knotted, in need of a comb and a trim, but Rex strokes it back from his closed eyes. He can't help but think of his dream, of the body beneath him that he didn’t want to recognize, the body astride his hips and breathless with it, Jon's ribs under his hands—

Jon stirs, a low moan breaking into the still air between them, and his lips part on a hitching breath as he twists a little. Instantly, Rex pulls his hand back like he’s been burned, and he practically flings himself out from under the blanket, scrambling back. It’s not _Jon_ , not really, but it’s definitely Rex. Rex and the fact that he just had a completely inappropriate fantasy about his _cellmate_.

Rex closes his eyes, grappling desperately for some dregs of self-control. Breathes in, breathes out, and when he opens his eyes Jon is still again, curled in the spot Rex just abandoned. His hair is in his face once more, and there are still lines of pain around his mouth, a streak of blood that he missed when wiping the traces of the nosebleed away. He’s pale and quiet and even if Rex was the one who was tortured last, Jon looks…bad. Like he’s hurt in ways that are more than just skin-deep.

In contrast, Rex feels…good. Better than he has in several days, actually. His hands don’t even hurt anymore.

“Captain?” Fives asks quietly, and Rex drags his gaze away from the way Jon's hand is curled in the blanket as if he’s looking for Rex's warmth. Lifts his gaze to find Fives watching him with a faint frown, and takes another breath like that will do anything at all to help.

“Dreams,” he says, which is close enough to the truth that Fives grimaces in sympathy.

 _Don’t_ , Rex wants to say _. It wasn’t nightmares, I was dreaming about_ —

Not Jon. Not _explicitly_. Rex has never had a type, per se—he likes people, and people who can make him laugh particularly, and on leave there’s never that much space to be picky anyway. But dark hair and pale eyes is a pretty contrast, and scars are intriguing, and it wasn’t _Jon_ , not up until that very last moment, which could be explained by Rex waking up and seeing him. Probably. _Hopefully_.

Rex scrubs his hands over his face and decides that if he ignores hard enough it will go away. That’s how things like that work, right?

“All quiet?” he asks Fives, who’s the only one awake. He looks bored with it, but Kix is asleep and drooling on his shoulder and he’s very much not moving an inch.

“Silent as a tomb,” Fives says, more or less cheerfully, and glances over at where Jesse and Echo are curled in a knot like they got into a fight in their sleep. His expression softens a little, taking on a slant that’s grim more than anything, and when he looks back at Rex, his eyes are dark. “Sir…”

“I know,” Rex says, because he does. They’ve been here for days already, and even if the time tends to blur, there’s probably been time for Anakin to get word of their disappearance. But—

Even if he does, what are the odds that he’s going to realize they were taken off-planet? How likely is it that he’ll be able to find the planet they were taken to, out of all the planets in the Outer Rim? And what are the chances that he can face down Dooku, even if he _does_ find them?

There hasn’t been a chance to escape yet, and Rex doesn’t see Dooku giving them one. He’s a smart man, and he knows what he’s doing in this war. At some point, he’s going to decide that shipping Torrent’s heads to Anakin in a box will be more productive than leaving them sitting in their cells indefinitely, and when that happens, they're all going to try to fight, but…

Five clone soldiers against a Sith Lord. Five clone soldiers and a spy who hasn’t seen much combat, if any, and those aren’t good odds no matter how Rex tries to turn things.

Like he’s reacting to Rex's worry, Jon stirs. Rex swallows, watching him curl deeper into the blanket, then still, and a moment later his eyes slide open. He looks dazed for a moment, confused, and Rex feels something turn in his chest.

It’s stupid, and counterproductive where ignoring things is concerned, but Rex shifts closer, reaches out. The backs of his fingers brush Jon's cheek as he settles beside him, and he asks, low, “Feeling better?”

“That should be my question,” Jon rasps, but he turns his face into the touch for a bare moment before he he’s pushing up with a wince. Rex wants to help, but he doesn’t know how, or if it will be welcome, and all he manages is a hand braced on Jon's shoulder. It makes Jon give him a faint, crooked smile as he slumps back against the wall, and if he was pale in his sleep he’s even paler now, almost ashen. Worry curls in Rex's stomach, and he can't resist the urge to settle next to Jon, their shoulders brushing.

Across the cell, Fives is watching them, considering, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Your pressure points seem to work,” Rex offers after a moment, wanting to keep Jon talking more than he actually wants an explanation. _Watch his breathing_ , Kix said, and—that seems like the least Rex can do, in light of everything.

“My—the woman who raised me taught me,” Jon says, tipping his head back against the wall. His hands curl on his thighs, fingers knotted in rough grey fabric, and he breathes out, rough and tired. “She knows…bits of everything.”

“Sounds like an interesting woman,” Rex observes, watching him.

The pull of Jon's mouth isn't really a smile. “She’s…very devoted,” he says. “To her ideals, and her causes. I was…she wanted me to help with them, but I'm—a disappointment.”

Something itches, uncomfortable, beneath Rex's skin. He hasn’t seen a lot of familial relationships, being a soldier. Knows how the trainers on Kamino work, and how Kenobi and Anakin work, and Anakin and Ahsoka. That’s the closest he’s really come to any sort of family dynamic, but even with that definite lack, Jon's doesn’t exactly sound good.

“You're helping save people,” Rex says, and lays a hand over Jon's. Jon twitches, like he hasn’t since the very beginning, and Rex pauses. The hesitation only lasts a moment, though, before Jon turns his hand, lets Rex's fingers settle over his palm.

“But not enough of them,” Jon says hoarsely, and he still hasn’t opened his eyes. “If I’d helped more, more clones might be alive—”

Something in Rex's chest aches. Not just civilians, but—Jon is thinking about Rex and his brothers. Thinks of the loss of them as a failing, a tragedy. It shouldn’t be astonishing, but there's an edge of relief and wonder to the realization all the same. It makes Rex tighten his grip on Jon's hand, just a little, and he has to clear his throat before he can say, “You got word on the defoliator out. That’s saved hundreds of thousands of us already.”

Jon doesn’t answer, but the slump of his body against Rex's is warm, steady. Rex closes his eyes, gripping his scarred hand, and wonders what would have happened if they'd met on leave, or on a mission, or anywhere other than a cell in the middle of enemy territory. He wants to think that Jon still would have caught his attention, that he would have seen even then that Jon was the kind of man who’d let himself be tortured to save someone else. That making Jon laugh would still come with a flicker of victory, a wash of elation.

The 501st deals with a lot of sensitive information, a lot of spies. It’s not entirely outside the realm of possibility that Jon would have joined them for a mission eventually. Not ridiculous to think that he and Rex would have ended up working together, and then—

Well. It’s a thought, that’s all.

“It will be enough,” Rex says, more so he’ll believe it than so Jon will. He remembers the defoliator that he and Bly faced, the way it destroyed everything organic it came into contact with. That weapon deployed against a clone army would be devastating; Rex can't even imagine the death toll if it was mass-produced and shipped off to be used like any other missile.

Jon gives a low hum that’s almost agreement. “Word got out,” he says. “Nico will know what to do.”

Rex swallows. The dead Master whose name Rex dropped, and—he regrets that, a little. Maybe a lot. It’s clear he and Jon were friends, and using him to lead Dooku astray seems disrespectful.

“First name basis, huh?” he asks, pressing the pad of his thumb against the pulse-point of Jon's wrist, counting beats of his heart. “You said he had a padawan?”

“Mm. Tae.” Jon's mouth curves. “The first time we met, I was undercover, but he took one look at me and knew who I was. Nico held it over my head for _months_.”

Good friends, then. Not just passing acquaintances, but actual friends, and Rex grimaces a little, regret rising again. “Sorry,” he says.

Jon shakes his head, like he knows what Rex is apologizing for. “There's nothing to be sorry for,” he says, and opens his eyes, meeting Rex's. “You survived.”

Rex almost didn’t want to, at points yesterday. He swallows, draws in a breath, and—it’s not over. Dooku still has them. They can't escape, and there’s _more_ torture coming—

“Rex,” Jon says, and there's a shift. Rex forces his head up to find Jon on his knees in front of him, still gripping his hand, and pale eyes are fixed on him, almost unnerving. Jon's expression is soft, though, something full of concern, and Rex can't help himself.

“I'm going to grab you,” he says hoarsely, and Jon blinks, but when Rex reaches for him, he doesn’t even try to move. Just stays where he is, letting Rex wrap his arms around him, practically fall against him, and a moment later there's a breath in Rex's short hair, arms coming up around him in return. Jon hugs him back, tight and desperate as Rex buries his face in his shoulder, and there's a tremor in him, low and desperate.

“Kriff,” Rex mutters, curling closer, and he tightens his grip, breathes out into grey cloth and scarred skin. “I don’t want—”

He breaks off, can't find the words, but Jon makes a sound like he knows what Rex means. “Dooku won't win,” he murmurs, close to Rex's ear but still almost inaudible. “He won't.”

Rex's eyes burn, and fear is something familiar. Everyone feels fear, and Rex has become all too used to it, on the battlefield. This is something different, though. This is helplessness and knowing pain is coming and knowing that Jon is probably next, but not being able to do anything to stop it. It’s Kix and Fives and Echo and Jesse all depending on him to get them home, except there's no way, no escape that Rex has seen. Just more of the same, the unchanging cell, Dooku waiting and ready to inflict more suffering.

Jon sighs, low and soft, and he shift back. Letting go is the last thing Rex wants to do—he wants to cling tighter, feel the beat of Jon's heart through the cloth between them, hang on to him until there's nothing left to be scared of—but he forces himself to loosen his grip, to sit back so Jon doesn’t have to deal with Rex breaking down on top of him.

“Shh,” Jon murmurs, and he cups both hands around the back of Rex's head, pulls him in with a gentle touch. Rests their foreheads together, light, but doesn’t close his eyes, and Rex's breath shudders out of him. He tangles his fingers in Jon's hair in return, holds him there, their knees touching, breath mingling. Jon's gaze is a weight, but a comforting one, and Rex holds there for a long moment, a tremble right down in his bones.

Gentle, careful, Jon lifts his head, then leans in, and Rex pulls him up against his chest with a sound of relief, wrapping his arms around him again. Just a hug, just the comfort of touch, but—somehow it means more to Rex right now than any touch before. He buries his face in Jon's hair, clutching him close, and just stays like that. Jon doesn’t move, doesn’t make any indication that he’s uncomfortable, just holds him tightly in return, and Rex keeps his eyes firmly closed and tries not to cry at the simple kindness.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and hates how raw his voice sounds.

“Dooku won't win,” Jon says again, and his hand strokes lightly across Rex's shoulder blade, pressure on skin and silent reassurance. “You’ll survive this. All of you.”

Jon's not one for bold proclamations, and somehow, those nine little words help more than any of General Kenobi's flowery speeches. Rex's breath shakes on the exhale, and he leans into Jon a little more, takes the contact greedily. Doesn’t say _I'm scared_ , but the thought rides close to the surface, bites up his spine. Scared for himself, but—he’s _terrified_ at the thought of his men, his _vode_ , having to suffer any of the torture he did. Thinks of Fives or Echo strung up in the wind, shaking and crying, or Kix and Jesse convulsing under the Magna Guard’s electrostaffs, and wants to beat Dooku to death with his fists. Wants to run and hide and never have to face anything ever again, because it’s all _too much._

There’s a rough breath against his cheek, a soft sound. Jon's arms curl around him, like he’s trying to cover Rex, shield him from the rest of the world, and a low hum. “You’ll be all right, Rex,” Jon murmurs, and there's a thread of perfect, unwavering faith in his voice that shakes Rex to his bones. Jon _believes_ , believes with a force that Rex wants desperately. “This will pass. You're strong enough to survive, even if it’s hard.”

It is hard. It seems an impossible thing, to believe that right now, and Rex swallows, doesn’t answer. The press of Jon's hand, flat against his bare back, feels like it’s a promise, but Rex can't believe it. Not now.

“If they die, there's no point in me having survived. Not when I could have saved them,” Rex finally manages, and hears Jon's slow inhale, the way his head tips, temple pressing to Rex's.

“You will,” Jon promises, but it’s empty. He _can't_ promise that. No one but Dooku can right now, and Dooku doesn’t even see them as human. Just tools. Just _clones_.

Still. His arms are warm, strong, and Rex leans into him desperately, digs his fingers into whatever parts of Jon he can reach and refuses to let go. For right now, it’s enough to have this. It’s enough to take a little bit of comfort in someone else, and Rex—

Rex thinks of his dream, of Jon-not-Jon beneath him, the feel of his mouth against Rex's. Skin, and heat, and want, and it’s still there beneath the surface, curled and waiting. It’s wrong, and they're both prisoners, and Rex _can't_ , but—

He thinks it, and the pressure of his hands must change, his body language must shift, because Jon goes still. For a long moment, he holds where he is, and then he slowly pulls back, looking at Rex with something like surprise on his face. He’s barely a hand’s length away, so close even now that Rex can feel his breath, and it’s physically impossible to resist the urge to lift his hand, to brush one of those stubborn strands of black hair away from Jon's eyes. It makes Jon's eyes widen, and Rex tells himself it’s a bad idea, tells himself it’s wrong, tells himself that it’s one more bit of leverage he’s giving Dooku, but he still can't stop.

He leans forward and kisses Jon, light and careful. It’s a simple press of lips, mouths slanting together, one hand on Jon's cheek. There are scars beneath his palm, the same ones that first caught his attention, and Rex tips his head, feels the way Jon shivers and tugs him closer. Slides his hand back into tangled hair, then kisses him again, still light, still easy, still ready to be pushed back.

But Jon doesn’t shove him away. He makes a soft sound deep in his throat, curls his hands around Rex's elbows and hangs on like this simple kiss is enough to undo him. It’s so quiet, so soft; all Rex can hear is their breathing, their kiss in the too-bright light. All he can feel is Jon, attentive and yielding under the press of his mouth, following Rex's lead gladly, kissing back like he could never do anything else.

It’s good. It’s so damn good that Rex wants to keep kissing him forever, to stay just like this, in their own little tangle of soft, gentle kisses and the press of hands. Just this is good, and just this is all Rex needs to leech out the panic that’s been riding him since he woke up, and—

Jon goes stiff, breath hitching. Instantly, he jerks away, whirling to his feet, and a blanket drops over Rex as Jon takes a deliberate, stubborn step in front of him, just as the door grinds open.

The panic rises, redoubles, but Rex crushes it ruthlessly. He rises to his feet as the sweep of a black cloak across the floor announces Dooku's arrival, and refuses to waver as he lifts his chin and meets Dooku's narrowed gaze.

“Captain,” Dooku says cordially. “Our conversation the other day went so well that I was hoping to repeat the experience.”

“Get karked,” Rex says, and doesn’t have to pretend at the wash of regret that rises. He shouldn’t have used Nico's name. Not when he knows the man was Jon's friend, and died to save the clone armies.

Dooku's smile is thin. “Your final response, Captain?” When Rex refuses to answer, he inclines his head. “Very well. I see you're determined to be stubborn. Guards, take the captain—and take the one with the tattoo as well.”

Rex's stomach drops, and his heart jolts in his chest. “What?” he demands, jerking forward, just as Kix cries out in fury and staggers to his feet. Jesse and Echo are rising too, Jesse's expression filled with fear, and Rex can't, he _can't_ —

Dooku is unmoved. “If torture fails to persuade you, Captain, maybe the removal of a few limbs not your own will help.”

“No!” Rex snarls, but the Guards are already at the door of Jesse's cell, reaching for the button, and there’s one in front of his cell—

“Qui-Gon Jinn would be ashamed of you,” Jon says, low.

“Stop,” Dooku says sharply, and the Magna Guards freeze where they are. There’s no reprieve from the artic chill settling into Dooku's expression, though, and he stalks up to the edge of the cell to stand right across from Jon. There’s fury in his eyes, a thread that’s about to snap, and horror surges up through Rex's chest.

“Jon,” he hisses, grabbing Jon's arm, but Jon doesn’t budge. He meets Dooku's gaze without hesitation, and the smile that crosses his face is small and cold and has nothing of humor in it.

“You heard me, _Master_ Dooku,” he says, and the title is an insult in his mouth. “Once one of the best diplomats in the Order, and look at you now. A petty torturer, a sadist, a coward. Qui-Gon wouldn’t even be able to look at you, if he were still alive.”

“You know nothing of Qui-Gon Jinn,” Dooku says, as soft as a breath and as deadly as poison. “Stop your foolish tongue, or I will cut it out of your head—”

“I know,” Jon says, perfectly calm, “that you failed in training him. A padawan _child_ beat Darth Maul, but Qui-Gon couldn’t. However you taught him, it was a failure. He’s dead because you were his Master.”

Rex swallows, hardly able to breathe beneath the hardening of Dooku's expression. He’s never seen Dooku give in to rage, had almost thought he couldn’t, but right now, looking in his eyes, rage is all that’s left.

“The Council’s blindness failed Qui-Gon—” Dooku starts.

Jon snorts. “Lie,” he says, poison-soft, and it sounds more like truth in that tone than if he’d shouted it. “It was a duel. You were one of the best duelists the Order ever produced, but Qui-Gon couldn’t hold his own even with assistance. That sounds like a sin on the teacher’s part to me.” He takes a step closer, right out of Rex's grip, until he’s bare inches from the barrier, looking Dooku right in the face.

“Perhaps it’s better this way,” he says, and Dooku's eyes narrow, his hands curling into fists. “Perhaps it’s best he died on Naboo. Imagine what Qui-Gon would say to you, if he were here. How he would turn his back on his former Master, and how quickly he would disavow you. What a proud legacy, and it’s come to _this_. Come to you as a _Sith_ , and Qui-Gon Jinn’s greatest shame.”

There's a long, long moment of perfect, strangling silence, and then Dooku takes a breath. It doesn’t shake, doesn’t waver, but his voice is the ice-cold crack of a whip when he says, “Guards. Take the spy. I find myself in a mood to break his arrogance. _Permanently_.”

“ _Jon_ ,” Rex says, and grabs for him, but the Guard is already pushing into the cell, seizing Jon by the arms. Desperation crests, and Rex throws himself at the droid, slams into it and tries to grab its joints and _tear_ , but it swats him aside like an insect, sends him crashing back into the wall so hard his vision greys out.

By the time Rex manages to roll back to his feet, the cell is sealed again, and another Guard has Jon's other arm. They drag him in front of Dooku, then let go, and Jon lands on his knees at the Sith Lord’s feet. He makes no attempt to stand, just settles there, sitting back on his heels and lifting his chin, steady and unwavering.

“Jon,” Rex says helplessly, because he _knows_ , he knows what Jon is doing, how he’s distracting Dooku to save Jesse, and it’s working and Rex _needs_ it to work but—

Lightning crackles around Dooku's fingertips, and he lashes out, electricity surging. It hits Jon full-on from barely a meter away, tears a ragged cry from his throat as he convulses, hitting the ground hard. Rex _snarls_ , shouts, but Dooku doesn’t so much as glance at him. Just closes his fingers, pulling back, and leaves Jon gasping and shuddering on the ground for a long moment.

Then, deliberately, he holds out a hand, and Rex has to close his eyes as lightning crackles again.

“No! No, stop it, leave him _alone_!” Kix shouts, practically throwing himself against the barrier with his fists raised, and Fives lunges, only just manages to catch him and drag him back in time. Kix struggles the whole way, cursing and swearing at Dooku in Mando’a, a torrent of threats and invective that Rex hardly registers.

Jesse is still in his cell, isn't maimed, isn't dead, and all Rex can hear are Jon's high, ragged breaths, the low keen of pain as the lightning redoubles. The moan, wounded and unconscious, as the sound of the electricity fades away.

Rex opens his eyes, and Jon is looking right at him, pale eyes unwavering. Full of certainty, that same gutting sort of faith, and Rex raises a hand, wants to press it up against the barrier and _can't_. Holds it there, instead, in mimicry if the gesture he wants to make.

Jon sees. Jon looks at him, and holds his eyes, and _smiles_ , and he reaches out. Can't quite manage to lift his hand, but he presses his fingers to the stone in front of the barrier for one long moment before the Guards grab him again, hauling him up to his feet.

Silent, radiating fury, Dooku turns on his heel and sweeps out of the room, and the Magna Guards follow behind him, dragging Jon with them. The door slams closed, a heavy thud Rex feels in his bones, and then there's no trace of any of them remaining.


	16. Chapter 16

Jon is one with the current of the Force, and he’s not afraid.

The Magna Guards haul him into a small, bare room, white and blinding. The lights are up all the way, the brightness instinctively unsettling, the glow of polished metal beneath it even worse. Jon doesn’t waver, doesn’t try to resist; he’s calm and steady as they start stripping off his clothes, composed even as Dooku circles him like a predator with gliding steps and icy eyes.

He’s one with the Force. Regardless of what happens, regardless of how well he can grasp it, that has always been true.

Dark Woman taught him how to bear pain. She taught him a lack of fear, how to look death in the eye and accept it. To accept the consequences of doing the right thing, regardless of how much they hurt, or how much he wanted to do otherwise. Being a Jedi isn't for glory, or for thanks; it’s steady, tireless, unrelenting work, in the face of all odds, but if they manage to save one life in the course of it, that makes all of their pain worthwhile.

This saves Jesse from torture. This saves _Rex_ from torture. There's no way it wouldn’t be worthwhile.

Naked, Jon is shoved down to his knees at Dooku's feet, pinned there between the two massive droids. He keeps his head up, his eyes forward, his expression calm, even as a cool hand grips his chin. Fingers dig in, like Dooku is about to force his mouth open, and there's a low breath that vibrates with contained fury just above Jon's head.

“I should follow through on my promise,” Dooku says, “and cut out your lying tongue, spy. But I would hear, before I do, your excuses. Where did you hear of Qui-Gon’s death?”

“Nico Diath,” Jon says, because Rex already laid the groundwork, and he of all people knows just how vicious Nico and Dooku's relationship in the Temple was. “He instructed me before a mission.”

There's a moment of dark silence, and then Dooku snorts. “Of course he wouldn’t stay dead,” he says, and it’s a vicious thing. “Of course he would come back to throw Qui-Gon in my face, through _you_.”

The backhand cracks across Jon's face, practically sends him off his knees. The guards still have a hold on him, though, and they jerk him back to kneeling, shoving him down. Jon is forced into a deep bend, forehead touching the tile, and there are steps around him. Dooku's boots ring loudly, and he circles Jon again, the flare of his cloak following him.

“Your partner attempted the destruction of two more of my factories,” he says coolly. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t kill you here and now, and turn my attention to them.”

Jon closes his eyes. Wants to reach for Fay, despite his slippery grasp on the Force, but doesn’t dare even try it with Dooku so close. Breathes in, holds it for a count of seven, and then lets it out out, exhaling his trepidation and fear along with the breath. He won't be scared. There's nothing to fear.

Whatever happens, he’s one with the Force. It resonates through him, it built him, and if he returns to it, it’s simply going home. He saved Jesse, and that’s enough.

“You’ll never find them,” he says simply, though he hopes with a cold, clear edge that Fay finds Dooku. If Ventress disgusted her, Dooku will make her _angry_. There's no force in the universe like Fay when she’s feeling righteous fury.

“Perhaps not,” Dooku says, soft. “But they will never find you, either. Perhaps after long enough, you will beg for my forgiveness for your arrogant falsehoods, and I will be kind enough to leave your body somewhere they can retrieve it.”

Jon snorts. “You truly believe Qui-Gon Jinn, who valued individual lives over the good of the many, would be able to meet your eyes now?” he asks. “Do you really think he would ever forgive you?”

Dooku's face is the coldest thing Jon has ever seen, but his eyes burn gold. He raises a hand, and Jon sets his jaw, squares his shoulders, and breathes.

He’s one with the Force, and the Force is all around him. It holds him, it created him, and pain is only physical in the vast scope of it, overwhelmed by the weight of the weave of it. Jon has nothing to fear.

He takes the lightning, takes the blow, and doesn’t regret his choices even for a moment.

“He never got to tell us about the fourth Master,” Fives says into the silence.

Rex, slumped back against the wall, raises his eyes, but can't even begin to find any words. Jon has been gone for hours. Too many hours, and maybe he’s suffering the same thing Rex endured last, strung up in the cold, freezing and straining—

But that seems like something too patient for the rage Dooku was feeling. Too easy.

He’s going to make Jon suffer.

Rex fists a hand in his hair, gritting his teeth. Wants to scream, or beat at the barrier, or do anything except sit here and _wait_ , wait for Jon to be dragged back. Or, worse yet, not come back at all.

“I guess at least we know he’s not a spy,” Jesse says, all dark, vicious humor, and Rex wants to snarl at him for it, but Jesse looks just as unhappy as Rex feels, expression twisted, grip on Echo’s arm almost white-knuckled. Guilty, Rex knows. Knows all too well, because _they're_ the reason Jon provoked Dooku. This isn't just Rex being forced into choosing Jon for torture; this was Jon actively putting himself between them and Dooku, needling Dooku until he was too angry to focus on anyone else. And now Jon's going to have to bear the weight of that rage all alone.

He didn’t even _hesitate_. Didn’t so much as pause to make that sacrifice.

Rex closes his eyes. Closes his eyes and breathes and thinks of Jon on his knees, chin raised, looking squarely at Dooku. Unwavering, perfectly calm even as lightning crackled, and that—

That’s an image Rex will never recover from. And it might not even _work_.

They're still Dooku's prisoners. He can still maim on of Rex's men at any time he feels like it, drag them out of their cells and kill them and there's _nothing Rex can do_. No way he can save them. No way he can save _Jon_.

His breath shudders out of his lungs, and Fives says, quiet, “Jesse. Stop.”

“I don’t—” Jesse starts, but he glances at Fives's face and then stops, swallowing. “Sorry,” he says quietly.

Echo reaches out, grips his shoulder and pulls him back, right up against his side. Instantly, Jesse turns his face into Echo’s shoulder, hiding away, and Rex has to force himself to look away, skin itching, breath hitching. All he can think of is the way Jon flinched and jerked away when he was first thrown into the cell, and then the contrast of just a few hours ago, how he let Rex grab him and hug him and—

And kiss him. Rex curls forward a little, and it’s hard to breathe. Jon kissed him back, _wanted_ him, was so gentle and soft against him, and Rex had let himself forget in the face of that, just what kind of situation they were in.

Kix is curled against the wall, not letting Fives touch him, not moving or making noise, just watching the doors. Rex understands the impulse perfectly.

“Nico Diath must have known Dooku,” Echo says, voice jarring in the grim silence. When Rex glances at him, he’s watching Fives, fingers curled tight around Jesse's shoulder. “To know all of that about Qui-Gon Jinn.”

“And he must have been friends with Jon, to have told him,” Fives agrees, quiet.

Good friends, Rex thinks. Which means Jon lost a close friend when that friend sacrificed himself to save the clones. And now Jon's done the same thing.

He’s a spy. He’s not supposed to be in direct danger, not meant to be a fighter. If they survive this, if they get out, Rex is going to make sure, _personally_ , that Jon ends up on a peaceful Core world somewhere far from the fighting, with a pension and a good life and no chance of being _tortured to death_ anymore.

His breath shakes, and he wishes he had his blaster, a vibroblade, a kriffing sharp _stick_. He wants to make Dooku _hurt_.

The echo of Jon's words to him when he was panicking come back, and the dark irony of them makes Rex want to choke. _You’ll survive this._ _All of you_. But—

He hadn’t said _we_ , and the gap where that word should be aches like a piece of flesh gouged out, the wound left to bleed. There's no recovering from it, no bearing it. Rex hadn’t noticed, when he said it, and somehow that feels like the greatest possible sin right now.

“How long has it been?” Jesse asks, still tense, still twitchy even under Echo’s arm. He eyes the door, then ducks his head, rubbing his hands over his face. Tries to hide his hitching breath, tries not to let anything show, and Rex looks away to give him at least that much privacy, even as Echo pulls him in closer.

“Five hours,” Kix says, unexpected and almost startling after being silent for so long. “Or close to it.”

Five hours with a furious Dooku. Five hours where Jon probably hasn’t stopped needling him for a _moment_ , just to keep Dooku's attention fixed on him. Assuming he can even talk. Dooku had threatened to cut his tongue out, hadn’t he?

The images are too vivid, make Rex's whole chest _burn_. He can't breathe, closes his hands into fists and then remembers all over again that the whole reason he can is because Jon helped him, worked on his hands and arms even though he was hurting too. Even though he probably had a _stroke_ while he was doing it. Pushed himself to his limits trying to help, _helping_ , and—

He’d kissed Rex back. He’d leaned into it, hung on to Rex like he couldn’t believe it was happening, didn’t want to pull away. His mouth was soft, and sweet, and all Rex wants to do is get him somewhere safe, wrap him in his arms and never let go.

He thinks, for one aching moment, how things might have been different if they’d met on a mission. If they’d had a chance to build something that wasn’t spurred on by torture, something that could last out the war and be entirely uncomplicated. Thinks of the war’s end, and Jon still there, unhurt, _waiting_. No one knows what will happen to the clones then, but—Rex thinks of retiring, and settling in the Outer Rim somewhere, with Jon beside him. Maybe even that swamp planet Jon said he liked so much. They could live there, and build something, and be _happy_ without the war and their duties in the way.

And then, low, grinding, the door opens.

Rex is on his feet before he can even decide to move, right up close to the barrier. Wants to pound on it, to shout, but his voice is locked down deep in his throat, tangled around terror. He can hear the clank of the Magna Guards’ feet, and—

Something being dragged down the steps.

“ _No_ ,” Rex says, but it’s too quiet, barely makes it off his tongue. He can't tear his eyes away from the doorway, can't breathe, can't _move_ —

Dooku sweeps into the room, thin-lipped and angry, but there's something darkly satisfied in his expression that makes Rex's blood turn to ice in his veins. He scans the cells, eyes flickering over Jesse and Echo and then sliding to Kix and Fives, and he pauses, like he’s considering something.

Rex wants to tear his heart out of his chest barehanded and feed it to him.

With one last dragging thump that makes Rex's vision swim with rage and rising grief, the Magna Guards clump into the room. Two of them, with a third behind them, and there's a body between them, limp and unmoving. There's so much blood smeared across his skin that for a moment Rex can't even tell he’s been stripped bare. Deep lacerations cover his back, his limbs, and there’s blood streaking the stone beneath him as he’s dragged into the open area and dropped there, perfectly, deathly still.

Rex stares, and his heart is in his throat, impossible to breathe around, and his head is nothing but white noise.

Dooku steps over one of Jon's sprawled legs, casting another look over Rex's men, and then says, “The medic. Come.”

Kix scrambles up, makes for the door of the cell as Dooku opens it. With a cry, Fives lunges after him, but a flick of Dooku's fingers sends him flying back, crashing into the wall. He tries to lever himself up, but Kix is already through the door, and the third Magna Guard stalks forward to set a familiar medkit on the ground in front of it.

“Take it,” Dooku says, and Kix snatches it up, then steps towards Jon, but an electrostaff bars his way.

“ _Please_ ,” Kix says, directly to Dooku, and his voice doesn’t shake, his hands don’t tremble, but he looks like he’s going to break if he’s not allowed to move. “I just want to help him.”

Dooku stares at him for a long, long moment, expressionless and cold, and then says, “Back in your cell.”

“ _What_?” Rex snarls, and it’s so tempting to _try_ the barrier, to see if he can't physically claw his way through to pound Dooku's face in personally. “You can’t—”

“He’s _dying_!” Kix says, over the top of him. “If you're not going to let me help, please, just—get him a doctor—”

The electrostaff stabs forward, and Kix goes down with a choked cry, medkit clattering out of his grip. Jesse shouts, and he’s on his feet, looking like Rex feels, with Echo and Fives both braced to lunge. Rex swallows hard, watching Kix twitch, choked cries rising from him. Takes a breath, and says, “Dooku. Just—take me. Whatever you want. Just take me and leave them alone.”

Jon still isn't moving. Rex can't even see him _breathing_.

“Your men are safe for the night, Captain,” Dooku says coolly. “I have more important matters to attend to.” He looks down at Kix, eyes narrowed, and orders, “In your cell, or I have them use their staffs on the spy again.”

Kix is still trembling with the aftershocks, but he grits his teeth, pushes up onto his hands and knees. Grabs for his medkit, and when Dooku doesn’t object, he gathers himself, rises as best he can, and stumbles into the cell, crumpling to his knees barely a foot inside the door. Instantly, Fives is beside him, putting himself between Kix and the open door, dragging him back as best he can.

“Guards,” Dooku says, and steps back, just enough for the closest Magna Guard to move past him. It grabs Jon by the arm, hauls him up as it straightens, and then stalks forward, dragging him right into Kix's cell. It dumps him there, then retreats, and the door seals behind it.

“Your pack has been searched for anything that might be used as a weapon,” Dooku says flatly. “Attempts to escape will be punished with the execution of your comrades. No other aid will be rendered.” He pauses, watching Kix like he’s a bug that tried to crawl over Dooku's boot, and says, “I hope you are as skilled as a real sentient, clone. If he dies, it will be down to your lack of skill.”

“Because you _torturing him to death_ has nothing to do with it,” Rex says, raw, ragged in his throat. Jon is in the other cell. He’s out of Rex's reach entirely. And—Rex is glad Kix is with him, but he wants Kix and Jon both in his cell, both close enough to protect. Like this, he can't do anything but _watch_ , and it’s maddening.

Kix doesn’t so much as glance at him. “Fives, help me turn him over,” he says, and Fives ducks around to Jon's other side. His hands hover uncertainly for a moment, like he can't tell what he should touch, but when Kix grabs one of the blankets and spreads it out, Fives grabs his hip. They ease him over onto the blanket, settling limbs, and Rex watches the way Jon's head rolls limply, the way blood runs down his skin and smears under Fives's grip, and doesn’t have any idea what to do.

Dooku is watching them as well, expression still holding that faint slant of satisfaction that makes Rex feel like fury is about to crack open his bones. Then, deliberate, he turns to face Rex, and the satisfaction deepens, sharpens.

“Perhaps you would like to know,” he says cordially, “but he cried out for you, near the end of our session. Begged, when nothing else done managed to force him to that point. He hoped most desperately that you would appear and save him, Captain. Isn't it flattering, to have someone so confident in your abilities?”

Rex can't help the sound that tears from his throat. He jerks, looking at Jon, and maybe it’s a lie because he shouldn’t believe anything Dooku says, but—

But what if it’s true? What if Jon called for him while Dooku and his men were cutting him open, and he thought Rex would save him, and Rex _didn’t_?

Rex knows, intellectually, that there's no possible way he could have gotten to Jon, but that doesn’t change the fact that it feels like Dooku just shoved his lightsaber right through his gut and left it there.

Dooku smiles, thin and cold, and turns on his heel. He sweeps out of the room, the Magna Guards following, and a moment later to door creaks closed.

“Kix?” Rex asks into the hush. His heart is beating too hard in his chest, and his voice is ragged, but it still carries well enough.

Kix doesn’t look up, shoving an antiseptic wipe at Fives. “I’ll know in a minute, Captain. Fives, start on his torso, keep it light. I need to be able to see what I'm working on.”

 _What_ is clear enough. Someone took a vibroblade to Jon, long cuts interspersed with deceptively small, deep stabs. They carved him up, for no reason other than to inflict pain, and Rex is going to be sick. He has to breathe through his nose, has to try not to gag at the sight, and bows his head. Slides down, sitting on the cold stone, and watches Kix sort through his equipment.

“Did he leave you anything?” he asks, throat too tight to manage more.

“Enough,” Kix says determinedly, and leans over Jon. Starts on the deepest cut, right down his sternum, and doesn’t waver, doesn’t falter.

Rex wishes he could have half as much composure.

And then, sudden, startling, there’s a sound. A low cry, half-strangled, and then a hissed breath, and Kix jerks back half a second before Jon wrenches. Fives lunges to grab him, seizes his shoulders and hauls him back down, but Rex feels panic flare and shoves to his feet.

“Don’t grab him!” he says sharply. “Don’t—Jon, _Jon_ , listen to me, you're fine. You're away—”

“Rex,” Jon manages, and pale, dazed eyes turn towards Rex instinctively. One hand reaches out, and Rex sucks in a breath at the sight of fingers dripping blood, sliced open with neat little cuts all up and down the length of them.

“You're all right, Jon,” he says, hoarse, and wishes more than anything that he was in the same cell, that he could touch. Curls his hands into fists, wanting to be there, to let Jon rest against him, help stitch him up, _something_. “Just—let Kix help you.”

“Rex,” Jon repeats, but when Fives catches his wrist and gently guides it back to his side, he doesn’t struggle. Just slumps there, eyes still on Rex, and doesn’t move.

“You survived,” Rex says, aching. “Dooku didn’t win.”

Pale eyes flutter closed, and Jon smiles, just a little. “I'm one with the Force,” he says, “and the Force is with me.”

Rex swallows. “Don’t join the Force just yet,” he says, and tries not to let it sound too desperate. “I think that’s reserved for Jedi.”

“The Force is everything, everywhere,” Jon murmurs. “Dooku—went too deep. Thinks he can control the Dark. But the Dark controls him now.”

“You shouldn’t be talking, Jon,” Kix says, though he casts a worried glance at Jon's face as he smears bacta across the wound. “Just—don’t move, all right?”

Jon doesn’t seem to hear him; his eyes slide open, unfocused, and there's something in them that Rex can't even begin to read. It’s _sharp_ , though, sharp and dangerous, and it makes his breath tangle in his throat.

There's a brush, like a hand against the bare skin of his back, but when Rex jerks around he can't see anything behind.

“Rex,” Jon says, barely above a whisper, and Rex instantly turns back, reaches for him even with the barrier in the way. Jon's still watching him, but every few seconds his eyes slip out of focus, like he’s looking elsewhere, and it takes another long moment for his eyes to slide back to Rex.

“Don’t talk,” Rex says, quiet. “Just let Kix help you.”

“It’s the mountain,” Jon says, like the words don’t even register. “We’re in the mountain. That’s why I didn’t know.”

Kix's expression is tight, and getting tighter. He’s working faster, hands steady but quick as he closes another wound. “Fives, that hypo,” he orders, tilting his chin at his kit. “Red casing. In his neck.”

“Kix?” Rex demands, panic rising. He checks Jon's face, but it’s still distant, still dazed, pale skin and a mask of red.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Kix says, and the determination in his voice is almost more unsettling than anything else. That means he doesn’t like the odds, can't count on skill alone. “I can try, but—”

“He said two more factories were destroyed,” Jon whispers, and his eyes slide past Rex, towards the blank wall. “He lied. It was four.”

Somewhere outside the cell, something rattles. A heavy thing tumbles down the stairs, slamming into the door with a loud bang, and Fives startles, almost dropping the hypo. Rex glances in that direction, then back at Jon, and his head is spinning, threads sliding together even if he can't see the picture they paint just yet. “Jon?” he asks. “Factories?”

“One left,” Jon whispers, and his eyes slide closed. He shudders a little, then goes still, head lolling—

With a shower of sparks, with an explosion of glass, the light over the doorway explodes so violently that Rex startles right to his feet, spinning to face it. Jesse and Echo duck, and Fives throws himself down to cover Jon bodily, one hand braced on the blanket by his head. Only Kix doesn’t move, tiny dermal mender perfectly steady as he traces it down another slash.

“Kriff,” Jesse says after a long moment, watching the destroyed light sway, strands of wire dangling from the shattered fixture. “What was that? An earthquake?”

“It must have been,” Rex says.

Every inch of skin prickles suddenly, like someone just walked over his grave. Rex wrenches around, steps back—

Jon kisses him, in his memory. It’s suddenly _there_ , so vivid it’s like he’s experiencing it again, like he can feel the flare of disbelief and desperation, the _want_ that rose to swamp him. Can feel Jon's hands on his arms, the press of his dream too close to the surface and a hundred times more vivid than it should be. It’s _shifted_ , though, just a little off; instead of a faceless lover it’s Jon, clear and certain, and Rex wraps him in his arms and hangs on, tightens his grip like they're going to be dragged apart—

And staggers as the feeling vanishes, leaving the smell of blood thick in the air, the ragged, wet sound of Jon's labored breaths all too audible. Rex sucks in a sharp breath, then turns, and says, “Dooku.”

“What?” Echo asks, alarmed.

“Dooku's playing mind games,” Rex says viciously, and doesn’t wipe his mouth, even if the urge is there. That memory is _his_. Dooku trying to use it against him just gives him even more reason to tear Dooku into tiny pieces as soon as he gets his hands on a weapon.

“Fek him,” Jesse says flatly, gaze fixed on Jon. “Kix—”

“I can work faster if I don’t have to answer questions,” Kix says, tight, and Jesse closes his mouth immediately. “Fives, bacta on these, hurry.”

“Yes, sir,” Fives says, and it’s meant to be a joke, but there’s almost nothing of humor in his tone. He takes the jar, opening it quickly, and Kix nods his thanks and keeps going.

Jon's face is still, slack. His eyes flicker beneath the lids, and he shifts, moans, small and pained. Rex watches his expression, the way it twists, the shift of it. His lips part, just a little, and he frames a word on a silent breath, or maybe it’s a name.

The hair on Rex's arms stands up, and he feels like he’s standing in the middle of a lightning storm with nowhere to go, energy buzzing through him. Another light swings, and the control panel by the door crackles once before going silent.

Hands curl around his, and lips feather against his own, and Rex can almost, _almost_ see Jon in his mind’s eye, dressed in dark colors and smiling, head tipped back towards the open sky, before the image starts to fade again.

It’s a taunt, it’s Dooku trying to unsettle them while Jon is dying. But—

That doesn’t mean Rex won't cling to that image and hold it close, precious, until the next time he can touch Jon again.


	17. Chapter 17

The Force _screams_ across all her senses, and Fay stops dead in the shadows of the last factory, torch dropping from suddenly nerveless fingers. It clatters to the ground, loud in the darkness, and Hardcase wrenches around, blaster up, looking for the threat.

“Master Fay?” he demands.

There's pain. There's pain and a bone-deep, bedrock faith that Fay _knows_. The first time she ever felt it was in the middle of an old temple somewhere far distant, and it had burned like a sun against the ruins of the Order’s lost past. The soul attached to it had been young, painfully so, and _broken_. Broken so he could be rebuilt into a weapon, torn down into something basic and bare and then carefully, brutally shaped into An’ya Kuro’s perfect image of a Jedi.

The faith is all Jon's, though, and it’s never wavered.

Fay closes her eyes, reaches out. Jon is a clear flame, a bright light with a heart just touched by shadows, and he’s suffering. He’s in _agony_ , and she can feel him bleeding it out into the Force, trying to stay in control. A Human body can only withstand so much, though, and he’s on the very brink.

 _Jon_ , she thinks, and gets one half-second glimpse of cold stone cells, cold white lights. A barrier, and through it—

The blond clone captain, his face full of a desperate sort of care as he stares at Jon. His mind is clearer than any other, vivid like a flare in the darkness, and Jon keeps reaching for him, trying to help. There are hands on Jon, other minds close, but he’s reaching for the captain again and again, the man’s worry drawing him like a beacon. Jon wants to soothe it, to ease it, and Fay aches for him, for the pain he’s disregarding in the name of helping someone else.

He’s fading, though. His control is slipping, his power reacting like an animal in its death throes. Fay assesses what she can sense of him in one brief instant, reaches—

There's swelling in his brain, the aftereffects of a bad concussion. It makes everything hazy, and Fay opens her eyes, takes a breath.

“Hardcase,” she says, “I'm sorry, but I need a moment.”

Hardcase doesn’t protest that they're in the middle of the last factory, deep in its innards and on a schedule. He has the thought, and Fay can feel it, the itch to keep moving, to keep searching, but he takes one look at her face and stops short.

“Sure, Master Fay,” he says. “You all right?”

“My friend is injured and needs my help,” Fay says, and drops, crossing her legs beneath her. She curls her hands together, pointer and middle fingers raised and steepled against each other, and breathes out, focusing.

Distance is a problem, but conquerable. All it takes is concentration, commitment, power.

Fay calls, and the Force answers. It always has.

 _Jon_ , she thinks, and feels his mind stir. Grabs for that bit of an anchor, stitching herself into his familiar bright-dark soul, and feels the surge of his relief, his welcome, his desperation. Like a child grabbing for a familiar person in a crowd, he pulls her in, and Fay wraps her mind around his, cutting off the pain, edging out the panic. Breathes, and—

_I am one with the Force and the Force is with me I am one with the Force and the Force is with me I am one with the Force and the Force is with me—_

A mantra, desperate and quick, but Fay murmurs it with him, slows his voice, settles his thoughts. Eases him back, just the way she did when a Human teenager, nothing but instinct and power, had first tumbled into her life. Jon then knew nothing of kindness beyond what he could provide for others, broke himself apart to study the shards every time he moved because he was terrified of falling, of any sort of moral weakness. He’s come so far, accomplished so much, and Fay draws that growth up out of his soul, reminding him, anchoring him. Adds deliberation, acceptance, purpose to the words, and breathes with him, slow and steady.

 _I am one with the Force and the Force is with me_.

The concussion and the swelling are easy enough to treat, and Fay spreads tendrils of a healing touch through his mind, feels the surge of his relief. He breathes, and like a veil of fog shredding beneath a morning breeze, the sense of the Force around him rises, breaks like dawn. His mind _opens_ , and through him Fay can feel the troopers with him, five distinct minds. The captain is the clearest, and Jon opens his eyes and looks at him again, can hardly seem to stop.

“Who did this to you?” Fay asks, steady, and there’s anger in her but she can control it. There's a sense of something Dark around Jon, permeating his skin, and it’s not the controlled, restrained darkness that grows from his own soul. It’s something sharper, crueler; someone used the Dark Side on him, and it shows.

 _Rex_ , Jon says, but it’s desperation, not an answer.

“Focus,” Fay says, gentle, implacable. “The Force. You can touch it now, when you couldn’t before. What changed?”

 _The Force is everything, everywhere_ , Jon tells her, but there's a note of wonder in it, a _surprise_. He’s been without it, and now he has it, and Fay wants to curl her fingers into the heat of his joy at having it back.

“Jon,” she says, prompting, and there’s a breath, an attempt to drag himself back and pay attention.

 _Dooku,_ Jon tells her, and then, _Went too deep_.

Too deep into the Force, hurt and with swelling in his brain. Buried himself in it, and that could have ended so very badly if Jon had one ounce less faith in the Force to protect him and guide him. But—it gave him back something he lost, and that’s enough for Fay to know.

“Dooku,” she murmurs instead of pressing. “How unsurprising.”

Jon's flicker of agreement is clear, even though the thoughts around it are fractured. _Thinks he can control the Dark. But the Dark controls him now._

“A loss,” Fay allows, and she’ll mourn it. Later, potentially. When Jon isn't in immediate danger. “We’re close, Jon. I'm coming.”

 _Where_? Jon asks, and it’s hazy with blood loss, with pain and strain and too much effort spent on things that should be easy. He’s been healing others, even with his indistinct grasp on the Force, and Fay bleeds warmth into his mind, all of her love.

“The last factory _,_ ” she answers, and his satisfaction snarls to life, the knowledge of Dooku's lie settling. Fay smiles faintly, hearing him speak but not able to focus on it. He’s hurting everywhere, bleeding out faster than he can survive, and the clone medic is working, focused and fierce, but it won't be enough. And healing will take time, given the distance between them; even Fay isn't powerful enough to fix this many wounds instantly from so far away. Time is short for her, too. They need to destroy the factory, take out the last opportunity for Dooku's forces to build their biological weapon.

She’s been careful, these last few days. Has gone out of her way to make sure that Dooku won't know there's a Jedi working against him. The factories have been blown up, the attacks have been staged to look like a small group of guerillas could have pulled them off, and Fay has covered their tracks and hidden them from hunting parties as best she can. But—

But Jon is dying, and this factory is almost through its production of the first order of weapons.

Fay breathes, and reaches, and opens her eyes.

The Force sings around her, through her. She calls, and it answers, and she’s always careful not to reach to far, not to use more than was given to her. The Force has kept her alive for centuries, nurtured her, held her in her darkest moments. It’s life and purpose and existence, and Fay has tried to never pull too hard on the weave of it.

But just this once, with so many lives in the balance, she takes the full force of it in both hands and casts herself out without pause.

“Hardcase,” she says, and reaches out towards the rush of him, swift as a river, anxiety and intent and determination. “Hang on to me and don’t let go.”

There's a startled pause, then a hand in hers, and Fay draws him close, drops his hand on her shoulder and feels him grip. “Trying something new, Master Fay?” he asks, a little awkward, and then stiffens. His blaster comes up, fires, and Fay feels the ringing impact of it, the way the droid shatters, the spread of ripples through the Force.

“Trying something rather inadvisable,” Fay says, and smiles, just a little. “It might get loud. Have faith in me.”

A breath like a laugh, and Hardcase takes another shot. “Sure thing, Master Fay. I can do that.”

She brushes her thanks across his mind, beyond the need for words, and reaches. Jon reaches back, grasp on the Force firming, settling, and Fay meets him halfway. She pours power into his limbs, his heart, his head, roots out the last of the bruising and swelling and—

 _It’s the mountain_ , Jon warns, and there's a flicker-flash of connection, the way Assi’s mountains scatter signals, the tenuous grasp he’s had on the Force, the way they couldn’t feel Dooku's presence. _We’re in the mountain. That’s why I didn’t know._

A spark of darkness, like ink. Attention on them, burning with fury, and a will crashes into hers with all the force of a battering ram, all the precision of a fencing foil. Fay hisses, recoiling, and feels Jon's alarm. But—

“Count Dooku,” she murmurs, and smiles, thin. “How kind of you to join us.”

A barrier rises, Jon's flicker-flare of power like a wall between them and the attack, and Fay slips through the cracks like wind. She pours healing into him, inefficient and unfocused from so far away, but _enough_. Closes cuts, heals stabs, starts more blood pounding through his veins, and Jon's relief is a rising tide, warm and thankful.

Above her, the factory groans, and Fay raises her head.

She’s not a Jedi who sees shatterpoints naturally. It’s an ability she’s never needed, but she thinks right now she can understand it. The factory is a web of metal and duracrete, veined with machinery and souled with code. If she looks closely, if she _wants,_ the points where it might break are clear. Fay's power washes through it to the creaking groan of too much metal, rises, crests—

She tears into it with _teeth_ and rips the whole thing apart.

The snap of Dooku's fury is an echoing thing, ringing across the space between them. Fay is too quick for him, though, too far away; she gives Jon a parting kiss on the brow and tumbles back to her body. Gathers herself, braces, and spins to her feet with a cry of effort, hands flashing up just as thousands of tons of metal and duracrete come tumbling down on their heads.

Hardcase jerks, cries out, grabs her like he’s going to tackle her to the ground and cover her with his own body, but Fay won't be moved. She takes the force of the explosion, takes the weight, takes the impact with all the will that five hundred years as a Jedi has given her. It jars a cry from her throat, shakes through her bones, but as the deafening rumble of settling debris rises, she holds.

The ruins of the factory settle around them with a crash and a groan, but nothing touches them.

“Karking _fek_ ,” Hardcase breathes, and carefully straightens from where he was crouched beside Fay. He scans the rubble, the smoke, the settling dust, and then turns wide eyes on her. “Did you set charges I didn’t know about?”

There's a steel beam above them that’s at the very edge of Fay's barrier. She flicks her fingers and it crumples, tumbling to the side. “Not quite,” she says, amused, and has to take a moment, catching her breath. She hasn’t used that much power in a very, very long time. “I broke the support beams with the Force.”

“The main ones?” Hardcase asks, concerned, and catches her elbow, offering her his support with a light touch. Fay takes it gratefully, leaning on him and trying to settle herself.

“No,” she says, and smiles. “All of them.”

Hardcase’s grip tightens, and a moment later his arm slides around her waist. “Karking hell, Master Fay,” he offers after a second.

The piles of rubble around them are too high to climb, too treacherous to attempt to navigate. Fay murmurs, “Hang on to me,” then hooks an arm around Hardcase’s ribs and leaps, the Force carrying them up in a high jump. The ground beyond isn't clear, but one sweep of Fay's hand and all the twisted metal and chunks of machinery there leap away, letting them land lightly on the pavement. Fay stumbles, just a little, but Hardcase holds her up, and she lets him for a moment, closing her eyes.

She can still feel Jon, but at the very edge of her senses, strangled by whatever aspect of the mountains was keeping him hidden when he couldn’t reach out. Whatever aspect of them was keeping _Dooku_ hidden, because Fay, too, should have felt his presence here the moment she set foot on the planet. But—

Jon is all right. Dooku realized she was reaching for someone in the dungeon, but given the way she was wrapped around Jon's Force signature, Dooku likely didn’t realize who she was contacting. He just knows there's someone in his cells that she was trying to get to, to get word to, and he won't realize Jon is a Jedi.

Jon isn't entirely healed, but he’s strong. He’s strong and clever and _brave_ , and he has things he wants to protect. He’ll be all right until she reaches him.

Satisfaction coils, cool and simmering, and Fay smiles. Reaches up, pushing her hair back and out of her face, and straightens.

“I think,” she says, “that it’s time to rescue your squad-mates, Hardcase. They’ve been waiting more than long enough.”

Hardcase looks at her, then turns his gaze on the castle sitting high up on the mountainside. Slants a glance at the rubble behind them, and _grins_.

“Think you’ve got another one of those in you, Master Fay?” he asks, shouldering his blaster.

Fay chuckles, and reaches down, pressing her fingertips to the petrified wood of Jon's lightsaber, still hanging from her sash. “I think we’ll make do,” she says, and steps away. There’s a shuttle at the edge of where the factory used to be, carefully untouched by the collapse, and she makes for it with brisk steps. “Can you fly this?” she asks.

Hardcase keeps pace easily, and he takes one look at the shuttle and nods.

“Not a problem,” he says confidently. “Your friend all right?”

“He’s going to be just fine,” Fay says, and has absolute faith that it’s true.

Dooku’s power is a storm, and it’s just about to break.

Jon opens his eyes to strange shadows, swaying light. Takes a breath, low, and feels the curl of Fay's healing pressing outward, rising to the surface of his skin as it burns out infection and seals cuts. There's a pulse of pain lingering in his nerve endings, too sharp, but—

He meets Rex's wide eyes across the space between the cells, and pushes up.

Instantly, there's a sound of alarm. Hands grab him, and Jon flinches automatically, jerks and twists and almost slides out from beneath them. Before he can, though, there's a quick sound, desperate.

“Fives, let him go!” Rex orders, and then the hands are gone. Jon lifts his head, relieved, trying to get his heartbeat under control, and offers Rex a small smile before he looks up at the man in front of him. Kix is watching him, eyes narrowed, something like realization bleeding into his face, into the sense of him. He glances at the dermal mender in his hand, then at Jon again, and lowers it.

“Jon,” he says. “You're—”

“Dooku's coming,” Jon says, and alarm washes over Kix's mind instead.

“But he was just _here_ ,” he protests, and turns, quickly repacking his medkit and closing it. One arm is hooked through the strap like he’s refusing to even consider being separated from it, and Jon shifts just enough that he’s between Kix and the doorway, blocking him from sight.

Fives sees the movement. He looks from Jon to Kix and back, then slides up beside Jon, hooking a loose arm under Jon's like he’s holding him up. There's no pressure on it; all of Fives's attention is focused on making a wall between Kix and the rest of the world.

“Looking better,” he says to Jon, and Rex's gaze sharpens, snaps to them.

Jon looks at him, and he can _feel_ him, without having to resort to touch. Can feel all of them, Kix full of worry and Fives trying to put the pieces together, Jesse with relief raging beneath his surprise and Echo suspicious and _sharp_ , mind racing. Rex is the clearest, though. Rex is the one Jon can feel right against his heart, disbelief and raging relief and something like wonder, guilt and joy all tangled up with care.

It’s breathtaking, and Jon doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

Holding his gaze, Jon tries for apology, tries for reassurance. “My partner,” he offers, the bare bones of the truth when Dooku might be listening still. “She’s a Healer.”

“A Jedi,” Echo says, one breath of sheer relief. “Sha can—over distances—?”

The heavy door slams open, so hard it rebounds off the wall. Dooku storms through like a thunderhead with a pair of Magna Guards behind him, dark cloak flaring, face set with cold fury. Jon stays where he is, kneeling on the stone with Fives gripping his arm, and when Dooku's chilly gaze settles on him, he lifts his chin and meets it squarely.

“Spy,” Dooku says coolly. “Hiding your own pathetic failures by allying with those stronger, I see.”

Jon doesn’t let the words move him. “She’s far stronger,” he agrees “as you’ll see very soon.”

Dooku's expression darkens further. “Guards,” he says, low. “The captain.”

Alarm flares sharp in Jon's chest, and he rises, even as Rex jerks back. There's no chance, though, no way to avoid the Magna Guards as they push into the cell. They grab him between them, haul him out and in front of Dooku, and shove him to his knees. Rex snarls as he hits the stone, struggles and tries to rise, but they pin him there, immovable.

With a hissing snap, the red blade ignites, and Jon's blood goes cold.

Delicately, deliberately, Dooku raises his blade, stilling it right beneath Rex's chin, the point a single breath away from his throat. He freezes, expression darkening, but Dooku isn't looking at him. His eyes are on Jon, narrow and angry.

“Your Jedi friend,” he tells Jon. “Give me her name.”

“No,” Rex says, before Jon can even open his mouth. He glances over, right at Jon, and his face is set is implacable lines, unwavering. “Don’t, Jon. Don’t give him anything.”

“ _Captain_ ,” Jesse starts, his voice nothing but alarm—

Jon sees the intent rise, half an instant before it translates into motion. Dooku's expression hardens, his mouth thins, his grip on the lightsaber’s hilt shifts just slightly. It’s a bare second of warning, one fractured heartbeat to register intent and threat and _darkness_ —

Jon steps away from Fives's grip. One steps forward, and there are a thousand lessons in his head, a thousand moments of pain and failed attempts and Dark Woman forcing him forward. She was never a kind teacher, and these lessons in particular were her disappointment in Jon brought to bear, her brutal patience honed into a weapon.

It’s been years since Jon used the trick last, but as Dooku thrusts his lightsaber right at Rex's throat, Jon reaches, seizing the current of the Force that flows through empty space, and _twists_.

Space bends under his grip, and he comes up under Dooku's guard, grabs his wrist and throws off his aim half a breath before his blade can touch Rex. Surges up, coldly intent, and slams his shoulder into the center of Dooku's chest, hurling him back. Instantly, in the brief bit of space given, he turns, lunging right for the closest Magna Guard where it’s holding Rex.

There's a shout somewhere behind him, a warning, but Jon doesn’t hesitate. He hits the Guard like a battering ram, pure Force channeled into impact, and the narrow chestplate crumples like cheap plastoid. Jon rips its hand away from Rex's arm, flings it sideways with one hard push, and sends it flying into the wall hard enough to crack stone.

Instantly, Rex surges to his feet, wrenches sideways as the Magna Guard brings up its staff. Jon doesn’t hesitate; he wraps his hand in a Force barrier, then lashes out, tearing through metal and circuits. The hand drops, and Jon ducks the other hand, grabs the electrostaff out of the air, and throws it to Rex as Rex rolls to his feet.

Rex catches it, and without hesitation, he turns on the Magna Guard and swings.

There's no time to help him; Jon feels the surge of the Dark Side rising a moment before he hears the crackle of lightning in the air, and he spins. Throws up his hands, and this at least is something easy, this is something he knows well and instinctively. Dark Woman was fond of Electric Judgement, and one of Jon's first lessons, when she started teaching him unusual techniques, was how to block it. The Dark Side energy makes it harder, grates like sandpaper across his nerves, a corruption of everything the Force should be, but Jon splays a hand, traps the lightning in the weave of the Force between his fingertips, and lets it crackle out, dispersing into the air.

There's a moment of silence as Dooku stares at him, eyes narrowed. “A Jedi,” he says, with an air of enlightenment. “How…unexpected.”

Jon doesn’t answer; there's no use in engaging, not now. He doesn’t need to distract Dooku, or draw his attention away from the clones; all of Dooku's attention is fixed on him, and he isn't looking anywhere else.

Dooku's mouth thins faintly, displeasuring flickering through his being. There's rage rising, like poison eating away at the edges of Dooku's soul, and it itches like biting insects, tries to tangle around Jon's own being. He breathes through it, lets all of his own anger slide out into the Force as he shifts, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. Better to be clearheaded for this; he can't allow himself to waver, even with everything Dooku inflicted on them. Can't give in, can't waver. He walks too close to the Dark Side as it is, and he won't let himself fall.

“A Jedi with very specific tricks,” Dooku says, deliberate, and takes a step forward, his lightsaber ready to thrust. “Tell me, boy, how is An’ya? Does she still have a taste for torturing her padawans in the name of training?”

“It was good preparation for meeting you,” Jon says without hesitation, and Dooku's mouth curls downward, displeased. He surges forward, but Jon sees him coming, sees the way his blade is aimed. Instead of retreating, instead of avoiding, he sidesteps just enough to grab Dooku's wrist, knocks it aside and grabs Dooku bodily.

Dooku isn't Durge. For all his power, for all his skill, he’s aging, used to duels or directing troops whenever he _does_ end up in a battle. Jon's still healing, still weaker than normal, but he’s spent every moment of his life moving and fighting and surviving, and this at least he _knows_.

He kicks Dooku's feet out from under him, slams him into the ground, and cracks his head against the stone.

There's half an instant where he thinks it’s worked. Dooku hisses, grip on his lightsaber slipping, and the hilt almost drops. His focus wavers—

And then, like a kick in the chest, something hits Jon full-on, throws him right off of Dooku and straight into the phalanx of Magna Guards coming down the stairs. Rex shouts, furious and alarmed, but Jon can't look, can't check on him. An electrostaff hits him in the back, pointed metal tip punching through skin and muscle as electricity _burns_ across his nerve endings, and he goes down with a choked cry.

“Jon!” Rex shouts, and Dooku makes a low sound of amusement, takes a step towards Jon—

Rex throws himself right into his path, electrostaff raised and braced, eyes full of a rage that outstrips Dooku's own.

“I don’t think so, Dooku,” he says, and lunges.


	18. Chapter 18

Jon is a Jedi.

Jon is a Jedi, and they're going to survive this.

Belief is a fire in Rex's chest, and hope is the breath that fans it. Rex drives the point of the electrostaff at Dooku, ducks the thrust of his lightsaber, spins to the side around another blow and brings the staff down hard. Dooku leaps back to avoid it, and there’s rage on his face, in his eyes, in the snarl that curls his mouth for just an instant before he gathers himself.

“Blind _fool_ ,” he says, a hiss of anger that Rex advances right through. “You would _thank_ him for his betrayal?”

Rex could laugh, if he weren’t so breathless. “Betrayal?” he demands. Jon is a _Jedi_. Jon is a Jedi and they're going to escape. “What, against _you_?”

Dooku smiles thinly, coldly. “Oh no, Captain,” he says, and takes a step to the side, lightsaber gripped loosely in his hand. Rex shifts his feet to follow, well aware of how fast Jedi can move when they want to, how light their weapons are and all the advantages that gives them. “How many days have you suffered here? And at any moment, the Shadow could have stepped right through the barrier and ended your pain. He could have rescued your men the moment you arrived, and instead he played games.”

Rex isn't stupid enough to take his eyes off Dooku, even just for long enough to glance back at the sounds of breaking metal, the muffled sound of pain as a body hits stone. Breathes in, instead, and lets it out, and thinks of Jon so pale and pained when they woke up. Jon gave himself a nosebleed, almost passed out trying to do what must have been healing, and there's no way Rex can remember that and not believe.

If Jon could have gotten them out, he would have.

“The only one playing games was you, Dooku,” he says, and catches the seed of movement half an instant before Dooku lunges. He drops low, swinging the electrostaff for Dooku's knees, and when Dooku leaps, flips, he spins it between his hands and rises, putting all of his momentum behind one hard thrust. It skims Dooku's cheek as he comes down, and there's a flicker—

Jon hits him bodily, wrapping an arm around Dooku's throat and hauling him back, off-balance and off his feet, and Dooku snarls. He flips his lightsaber around, stabs backwards, and Jon goes down with a cry as it sears into his leg. Rex shouts, stabbing for Dooku's head before he can take advantage, and Dooku brings his blade up, slices right through the shaft of the staff, and aims an elegant thrust right at Rex's head.

Jon kicks Dooku's feet out from under him, and Rex swings the hilt of the staff like a club as he goes down. For half an instant, he thinks it’s going to be enough—

Electricity, white-hot in every nerve-ending, and Rex hits the ground with a choking cry, vision going grey. He can feel his muscles lock, the kick of a convulsion, but somewhere beyond him there's a cry. The lightning cuts off, and a body hits the ground in front of him, braced on one knee. Desperately, Rex grabs for a weapon, tries to roll upright, but Jon is right in front of him, Dooku's lightning crackling in his hands as he catches it. He’s breathing hard, rough in his lungs, but the stab wound on his leg is healing, the skin growing back whole over the deep burn.

“Your Master taught you well, it seems,” Dooku says, lifting his hand as the lightning dies. His eyes are dark, steady as he watches Jon, and his blade hums as he brings it forward, a clear threat. “A shame you didn’t end up sold to pirates as well, boy. Your fate would be much kinder.”

Jon doesn’t answer, just watches Dooku in return, and the tip of his chin is all silent defiance.

Rex gets a hand on his back, pushes up and finds his feet, bracing himself. Steps up beside Jon, and the way Jon presses his shoulder into Rex's thigh and doesn’t move away makes Rex's heart leap. There's a rattle behind him, and Rex turns his head, grabs the undamaged electrostaff that leaps towards him, and wants to laugh. Even facing down a Sith, even facing someone as dangerous as Dooku, there's still a seed in his chest, something bubbling up bright and sharp like hope, that says they aren’t doomed. As long as Rex can fight, as long as Jon can, Rex won't give up. He can't.

Slowly, deliberately, Jon gets his feet under himself and rises, and he’s still naked, still covered in blood, still breathing unevenly, but he doesn’t waver. “Qui-Gon really would be disappointed in you,” he says, and Dooku's mouth pulls into something cruel, his gaze going flat and hard. “You were supposed to be one of the Temple’s wisest. And now look what you’ve made yourself.”

Dooku smiles, thin. “One might draw certain conclusions from the fact that I saw the course of the future,” he says. “And chose to follow this path. The Jedi's days are numbered, boy. That Yoda has not seen it yet only proves that he is a stubborn old fool.” He raises a hand—

In an instant, Jon is moving. He leaps straight for Dooku, unhesitating even as that red blade stabs out, and Rex's shout of dismay lodges in his throat, too desperate to escape. He lunges after—

Jon's body shimmers, goes indistinct. He passes right through the lightsaber like he’s a ghost, right through _Dooku_ , and Rex doesn’t let himself pause. He swings with the broken staff, feels Dooku's blade cut right through it and lets go, but in the same moment Jon whirls around, and a kick catches Dooku right between the shoulder blades, knocks him forward. Rex ducks the lash of his lightsaber, stabs upward just as Jon brings an elbow down, and the crackle of the electrostaff hitting flesh makes something like vengeful joy spark. Dooku drops, hits the ground on his knees as his lightsaber goes clattering away, and Jon calls it to his hand with a flick of his fingers.

“Surrender, Dooku,” he warns, and lets the red blade settle almost against Dooku's throat.

Dooku's eyes flicker from Rex to Jon, and he takes a breath. Against the floor, his fingers curl, and there's a tremor like an earthquake that rocks the room.

“To _you_?” he asks, derisive. “My power is greater than you can imagine, boy. You cannot hope to beat me.”

Jon's mouth tightens, and something flickers across his face, but he doesn’t swing. “Dooku,” he says again, and it’s almost a plea.

Dooku smiles, humorless. “Ah yes. A Jedi does not kill an unarmed man. And you are _quite_ the Jedi, are you not? So willing to bear suffering for others’ sakes. But this darkness—it calls to you. You feel it, the _potential_.”

Subtle but obvious, Jon flinches. He swallows—

“I,” Rex says grimly, “am not a Jedi, _Count_.” He flips the staff around, and even as Dooku's eyes widen, he brings it down hard, right across the side of Dooku's head. Dooku goes sprawling, rolling across the stone to slam into one of the barriers, and electricity from it crackles across him as he cries out.

Taking a breath, Rex lowers the staff, then straightens. “Binders,” he says to Jon. “If we’re taking him with us, he needs to be in cuffs.”

“Taking me,” Dooku says, ragged, but he’s rising. Rex wrenches the staff up, alarm flaring, and Jon takes a step, but Dooku raises a hand, and the castle shakes. “I think not.”

The ground practically ripples beneath Rex's feet and he curses as he spills sideways, unable to catch his balance. Jon lunges, grabbing him before he can hit one of the barriers, and snarls, “Dooku, _stop_ —”

The lights shatter, and in the glow of the barriers, with a grating, heaving groan, the stone blocks of the ceiling jar loose. The first one tumbles down, right towards Echo and Jesse in their cell, and Rex shouts a warning but there's nowhere for them to go—

The block stops.

There's a ripple in the air that even Rex can feel, like a breeze whirling through. It sends Dooku's cape fluttering, rustles Jon's hair, washes over Rex like warmth and clean air and something green. And like that spreading breeze, silence ripples out across the room, quieting the tremors, sending the ceiling blocks sliding back up and settling them there.

Quiet, steady, there are footsteps on the stairs.

“A temper tantrum will get you nowhere, Dooku,” a woman says, and a moment later a small Sephi in white robes stained with ash descends the last few steps, long brown hair fluttering in the wind. Her expression is cool, steady, and her gaze is fixed on Dooku as he sets his feet and faces her.

“Master Fay,” he says after a long moment, and there's something dark in his voice. “I could swear that Asajj killed you personally.”

“If only you had trained your assassin better, Dooku,” Fay replies, even, and there's a familiar figure behind her, even dressed in civilian clothes that look like they’ve seen better days. When Rex catches Hardcase’s eye, absolutely bewildered as to how he even got here, Hardcase grins at him, but an instant later his gaze is locked back on Dooku, blaster trained on him.

“Fay,” Jon says, and there's a note of relief in his voice that’s so complete and heartfelt that it makes the same thing echo in Rex's chest. “You made it.”

“Thank you for the distraction, Jon. It was almost _too_ thorough, though, I think,” she says, and touches his shoulder as she passes him, one brief grip that says more than words could about the two of them. She doesn’t stop, though, keeps walking until she’s right in front of Dooku, and all around her the barriers flicker.

“What a tragedy,” she says quietly. “You’ve been swallowed whole but you still think you're in command.”

Something twists across Dooku's face, a shadow of a grimace, like there’s a fly landing on his skin that he can't swat at. “If you cannot keep your thoughts to yourself, Jedi—”

“Fay,” Jon says quietly, warning.

“Nothing he can do will be enough to shield his mind from _me_ ,” Fay says, and detaches something from her sash. It’s a lightsaber, with a long hilt made of a strange, color-speckled stone and capped in metal. Rex expects her to ignite it, to raise it, but instead she opens her hand, and it goes spinning across the room. Jon catches it out of the air, and Rex is close enough to feel the relief that washes through him, the way every tense muscle eases just a little bit. He raises it, ignites it, and the blade burns green as it hisses into being.

“Thank you,” he says.

Fay smiles, just faintly, though her eyes are still on Dooku. “I've never carried a lightsaber and I don’t plan to start, Master Antilles. Don’t force me to change that for your benefit.”

Rex blinks, looking from her to Jon and back again. There's a thought that won't quite connect, but—

“Master Antilles,” Dooku repeats, cold. “Jon Antilles, I presume. A fitting name for a spy, and a dead one at that.”

“You haven’t managed to kill me yet,” Jon says, soft.

Dooku twitches, wavers, takes a step back and catches himself. With an angry hiss of breath, he raises a hand at Fay—

She steps forward and catches his wrist, and her eyes are like grey ice, unwavering. “No, Dooku,” she says. “Too long, with too many deaths laid at your feet, and for _nothing_. Give me your Master.”

“You hardly survived one little girl who thought herself an assassin,” Dooku says, but his face is getting tighter, lines deepening, and strangest of all, he’s not pulling away from Fay's hand. There's a silent struggle going on, just beyond what Rex can see, and he takes a half-step back, wanting to run for the cells but also knowing better than to get in the way, and swallows.

Like he can hear the thought—because he _can_ , because he’s a _Jedi_ —Jon reaches out and carefully grips Rex's arm. Pulls him back a step, and says lowly, “She’s trying to take his memories, but he’s fighting.” Satisfaction darkens his expression, just for a moment, and he tips his chin up. “But not for long.”

Rex turns his hand, gripping Jon's wrist in return. Presses his fingers over new scars, rough beneath his fingertips, and wants to shove forward and drive his electrostaff right through Dooku's ribs for that.

“Jon,” he says, and Jon's eyes flicker away from Fay for half an instant—

Fay shrieks, a high, angry cry as she’s thrown backwards, right into the closest barrier. Hardcase shouts too, but Dooku is already moving, red lightsaber whirling out of Jon's grip to leap back to his hand even as lightning crackles in his free hand. Jon doesn’t even pause to make a sound; he throws himself forward, lightsaber leading, just as the lightning hits Fay. She cries out, convulsing, and Rex lunges for her just as Jon reaches Dooku. The lightning cuts off as Dooku spins to parry, but Rex doesn’t hesitate. He grabs one of Fay's arms, and Hardcase grabs the other, helping haul her back out of the way.

“No,” Fay manages, breathless, and tries to stagger upright even though her legs give way. “Jon—”

“Think he’s doing just fine, Master Fay,” Hardcase says, and—

Rex looks up, lets himself focus, and Jon _is_.

The dungeon is dark, but the lightsabers glow, a whirl of green and red clashing, separating, spinning back together. Dooku is elegant, graceful, measured and powerful in it, always managing to get his blade right where it needs to be, but—

But Jon is _strong_ , and he fights like it’s his last fight, like it doesn’t matter how close Dooku comes to winning as long as Jon makes it there half a step ahead of him. Rex's breath catches hard in his throat at each bruising-strong strike, battering Dooku's defenses as Jon drives him back across the stone. The flickers of Dooku's blade are tricky, swift, knocking Jon's blade aside at the worst moments, but Jon pushes through without faltering, without even _blinking_. Dooku's blade slashes down across his arm, but the cut heals even as the lightsaber lifts, leaves a scar but nothing else, and Jon steps right through the motion, kicks out hard, and his foot catches Dooku right in the ribs, flings him back and nearly knocks him off his feet.

“He is,” Fay breathes, pulling herself all the way to her feet, and Rex catches her arm, feels thin bones and wiry muscle and a buzz like he’s standing too close to a hyperdrive. It makes his teeth ache, puts all of his hair on end, and he sucks in a breath but doesn’t let go as she raises her hands, ring and middle fingers curled down to touch the tip of her thumb. Her eyes go half-closed, and she breathes out and says, “But killing Dooku isn't the point.”

It sure as hell feels like a mighty good point to Rex, but he keeps his mouth shut, doesn’t think about scars beneath his fingertips. If Fay is looking for Dooku's Master, that means she’s trying to uncover the identity of the Sith in the Senate, and if they can find that—

Well. Rex hasn’t let himself contemplate the end of the war very much. He’s a clone, and he’s built to fight, and he’ll fight until the fighting’s done. But after that, if there _is_ an after, is something that can't come too soon, no matter how little he’s thought about it. And finding the Sith who’s been behind all of this, who’s the source of everything, will mean that the Republic finally has a fair chance without all the backstabbing and stolen information. Rex wants that. He wants his brothers to have a _chance_.

He can't look away from Jon. Jon, lit by green and scarlet, scarred and beautiful as he meets Dooku blow for blow. It’s not the graceful, twisting, acrobatic combat Rex has seen when Ventress and the generals fight; this is brutal and quick and grounded, and Rex can _see_ that Dooku is the better swordsman, but Jon is stronger. Jon is faster and he’s not wavering even for a second, and Dooku—

Dooku staggers, face going slack for half an instant, and Jon lunges. In the same moment, Fay jerks backwards with a cry, landing hard on her knees as her face goes white, and Dooku brings his blade around—

Burning red sinks right through Jon's ribs, just as Jon's green blade takes Dooku through the chest. 

“Jon!” Rex shouts, and he’s moving before he can even think of the reasons why he shouldn’t, grabbing Jon's arm as he staggers back and catching him around the waist as his legs give way. He crumples, and Rex slides down with him, wrapping his arms around him as his chest hitches like he can't draw breath. Something like panic flares across his face, and Rex curses, _knowing_ that a lightsaber through the gut isn't something any medkit in the galaxy can fix. He wraps his arms around Jon's chest, taking his weight, and doesn’t spare a glance for Dooku as he slumps to the stone.

Jon killed him. Jon killed him and got himself killed in the process, and—

“You _mudworm_ ,” Fay says, and grabs Jon's face between her hands, brown hair sliding around her shoulders as she leans over him. “No, that’s an insult to mudworms. You know how to _dodge_ , Jon Antilles.”

Jon wheezes out a breath, head falling back against Rex's shoulder. But he _breathes_ , and the next one shudders out of him, draws in, rattles as it emerges but steadies even so. The perfect, circular burn heals over, scars, fades, until there's nothing left, and Jon groans.

“You lost your hat,” he tells Fay roughly, and there's a curl to his mouth that’s all tired humor, warm with something like fondness.

Fay rolls her eyes and straightens. “The _greatest_ insult to mudworms,” she says. “And I didn’t lose it. I hid it.” Pulling off her outer robe, she drops it on Jon's lap, and says, “Wear that. You’ll catch a cold.”

Jon's hands find Rex's where they're wrapped around him, curl tight. Unable to help himself, Rex turns his face into Jon's hair, tucks his nose into the curve of Jon's skull, breathing him in, and tightens his arms. Beneath his hand, he can feel the beat of Jon's heart, steady and strong, and it makes him want a hundred thousand ridiculous things.

“We’ve managed all right so far,” Jon rasps, and Rex laughs against his skin, unable to believe it, but—

They have.

Fay's smile is slow and a little crooked, but she leans down, smooths the hair back from Jon's face before she turns, looking to Dooku. Pauses there, mouth tightening, and doesn’t say anything.

Slowly, carefully, Jon pushes himself up to sit, trading glances with Rex. Then, deliberate, he asks, “Did you see his Master?”

“I did,” Fay says quietly, and turns. “There’s a ship on the balcony that we can take. I’m sure the captain and his men would appreciate a return to their battalions.” With a sweep of robes, she heads up the stairs, and Hardcase hesitates for an instant, then tosses Rex a hurried salute and follows and a jog.

“Well,” Jon says after a moment, and lifts a hand. “It’s someone inconvenient, I assume.” The locks all click, then go dark, and the cell doors open as one. Instantly, Kix is out and moving, dropping to his knees next to Jon and grabbing for his medkit with a single-minded intensity that’s a little alarming.

“When isn't it?” Rex mutters, but he detaches his hands from Jon long enough to reach out for Kix. “Kix, it’s—”

“Just—let me check,” Kix says, a little ragged, and Jon curls his fingers around Rex's, pulls them back down.

“All right,” he says calmly, and as Fives approaches, Jon offers him a faintly crooked smile. “Thank you. For before.”

Fives snorts. “Helping Kix? Easy. But…” He pauses, looking Jon over, and then smiles. “Thanks for keeping Jesse in one piece.”

For keeping all of them in one piece. Rex breathes out, gripping Jon's fingers, and gives Echo and Jesse a quick smile as they approach, but—his eyes automatically slide down, to the crumpled body on the ground behind them. Dooku's eyes are wide and staring, face still caught between shock and triumph, and Rex thinks of Jon covered in blood, the casual cruelty when Dooku ordered his guards to take Jesse, and sets his jaw.

“What about him?” he asks, nodding at the body. “Proof of death for the Republic?”

Echo grimaces, but says, “Depending on where we are, maybe save it for whoever comes to investigate. Proof of crimes _and_ death.”

 _Let him rot here_ is what Rex wants to say. He sighs, and when Jon turns to look at him, Rex leans in, tapping their foreheads together and closing his eyes. A kiss, and he’s not afraid to show it. Fives already saw, and—

Rex can't even begin to think of it as something to be ashamed of.

“You're a Jedi,” he whispers, because that still feels like an impossible thing, one more impossible thing in a whole slew of them. Jon is a _Jedi_.

There's a flinch, and Jon's gaze drops. He closes his eyes, expression twisting, and says, “I'm sorry. I couldn’t—if I could have stopped Dooku, or gotten you free—”

“I know,” Rex says without hesitation, and he does. He saw the punishment Jon took, his fury at Dooku every time Dooku appeared. If Jon had been able to kill him, he already would have. Rex knows that without a single doubt.

Jon's breath shakes on the exhale, like he was scared, like he was braced for whatever Rex was about to say, and he slumps into him just a little, reaches out and then stops himself.

Not about to let that stand, Rex catches his hands, pulls them up. Kisses the scarred knuckles, tasting blood from Dooku's torture, and meets Jon's blue eyes, unwavering.

“I'm glad you're a Jedi,” he says quietly, and Jon shivers, ducks his head like he can't physically bear to look at Rex for one more second. His hands close more tightly around Rex's, though, and Rex pulls him in, wraps his arms around him with a shuddering breath that’s entirely relief. Closes his eyes as well, unsteady but settling, and doesn’t ever want to let go.

“You healed the captain, didn’t you?” Kix asks quietly. “After—after last time. When you gave yourself a nosebleed.”

Remembered fear kicks in Rex's chest, and he tightens his grip, tries not to think about that moment when Jon listed forward into his arms. Focuses, instead, on the way he’d felt during, the warmth and the way muscles eased. Not a massage, but—Jedi healing. Rex has never felt it before, but…it’s a sight better than a bacta patch.

“I had to help,” Jon says, and Rex pulls back enough to see his face. Meets his eyes, and Jon looks pained, looks _apologetic_.

There's no way to know how long Rex would have lasted under Dooku's torture without him there. Rex doesn’t even particularly want to think about it. He has faith in himself, and in his own will to protect his men, both in Torrent and in the 501st as a whole. But—

“Pretty sure you're the only reason I can move my fingers at this point,” he says, light, but it’s not anything close to a joke. Slowly, deliberately raising a hand, he cups Jon's cheek, brushes his thumb across the wide, pale scar that cuts down from the bridge of his nose to his jaw. With a soft sound that lodges deep in Rex's chest, Jon leans into the touch, eyes sliding closed. It makes Rex swallow, makes him _ache_ , and he leans in, catches Jon's mouth.

Instantly, desperately, Jon rises to meet him, kissing back, and it’s not slow, not tentative like it was before, but it’s still careful. Rex cups his face, kisses him, and it’s still a wonder, still something so new that feels like he’s been wanting it forever.

“ _Captain_ ,” Kix says, just a little aggrieved. “You're interfering with the scanner, can you just—I’ll take either one of you, but _both_ is _not helping_ —”

Jon is laughing. Just a little, quiet, raspy against Rex's lips, but when Rex opens his eyes there's something to bright in his face, full of relief and joy like Rex has never seen before, and—it’s beautiful.

“We made it,” Rex says, and Jon leans in, kisses Rex so carefully and so softly that it wraps around his ribs, stitches itself into his chest like it will never come loose. Rex kisses him back, and maybe it’s Kix's aggrieved sigh, maybe it’s Jesse's groan or Fives's laughter or Echo’s huff, but he’s smiling as he does.


	19. Chapter 19

“You want me to _what_?” Fox asks, outraged.

“Play boy-toy,” Nico says, dust-dry.

“Play escort,” Knol says right over top of him, since just because Nico objects to having fun undercover doesn’t mean _she_ has to. She slides a jeweled comb into her mane, then checks the fall of her dress in the mirror, making sure it hides her lightsaber. And her vibroblades. Those are rather less important to keep concealed, though. The line is all wrong, and she makes a sound of disgust, leaning down to hitch up the hem. Behind her, Fox chokes, and Knol rolls her eyes, adjusting the strap around her thigh.

“What?” she asks. “Never seen a nice pair of legs before?”

Nico sighs at her, as if Knol can't see the way his mustache twitches. “Fox, ignore her. At some point she only does it to get a reaction from everyone else.”

Knol makes a rude sound, dropping the hem and checking again. There's still a line, and she frowns. “Shut your mouth, Diath, it’s _always_ to get a reaction from everyone else. Kriff, I _knew_ I should have gone with the darker color.”

Nico makes a thoughtful sound, rising to his feet and approaching. More than wiling to take the help, Knol raises her arms, letting him tug the holster around. After a moment, he makes a sound of mild frustration and says, “You should have, yes. This is the only outfit you have?”

“I came here expecting slave-runners, not weapons dealers,” Knol points out. “Give me a day and I can probably scare up something else appropriate, but I don’t think we _have_ an extra day.”

“Hm, likely not.” Nico straightens, considering her with a frown, and asks, “Above the band of your bra?”

“It’s a lightsaber, Diath, not a transmitter, and I'm not _that_ flat-chested.” Knol pulls it free, weighing it in her hand for a moment. Fay would say go without, but Fay's weird as hell anyway. And more than that, a lightsaber works pretty well as a badge of authority for a Jedi, and Knol doesn’t want to go without that. “Fine. Fox, mind carrying a lightsaber?”

“And playing boy-toy,” Fox says, unimpressed. “You didn’t even ask about that.”

Knol gives him a smile, full of teeth. “Only one way to get into the fancy hotel Lok Durd’s at, and that’s as guests. If you want _me_ to play the arm candy, I don’t mind that, but you're going to have to carry my lightsaber either way.”

Fox flushes, red and clearly annoyed about it, and Knol laughs. She _likes_ him. He’s both easy to rile and very contained about it. And it’s nice having someone besides Nico around, since he’s wise to all of her tricks at this point.

“Come on, don’t you want to touch my lightsaber?” she teases, and flips her lightsaber across the room.

Fox makes a sound of alarm and lunges to catch it, then freezes, something startled crossing his face. He straightens slowly, turning the hilt over in his hands, and says, bewildered, “It’s _light_. How do you even manage to use it when it doesn’t have any weight to it?”

“Practice,” Knol says with a shrug, watching him. “It’s a crystal, a hilt, and the Force, so it’s not meant to be heavy. And it means most people can't just pick one up and use it, especially if they're used to a vibrosword or a blaster.” She studies the way Fox fits his hand around the hilt, and his hand is too large, a little awkward when it’s specifically made for Knol's grip and she’s almost two heads shorter, but he’s got a good instinct for how to hold it, even when it’s lighter than he’s used to. Resettling the dress, she slips past Nico to approach Fox, circling around halfway behind him and then reaching out.

He flinches at the unexpected touch, startling as Knol's knuckles brush his arm, but—that’s probably to be expected, given the state his mind was in, not to mention all the time spent around the assholes in the Senate. Knol grips his shoulder for a heartbeat, acknowledging without words the same way she would for Jon in a bad moment, and says, “A little lower. If the blade ignites when your hand’s covered in blood, your grip could slip and you could chop your own hand off. Here.” She leans over his side, nudging the hilt up a little, and then wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know why you Humans need such big hands, it’s inconvenient. There. Bend the wrist more.”

“It’s very convenient, actually,” Fox retorts, “and I've never had anyone complain.” He does as she suggests, though, and it’s a decent approximation of a starting stance. Soresu looks good on him, and that along with his words makes Knol laugh.

“A dirty joke?” she asks delightedly. “I think I'm keeping you, Commander. All right, like you're going to block a strike at your head by a vibrosword. Up and across.” She grips his forearm lightly, guiding his arms up through the block and then down into a parry. “Soresu’s not good for much beyond outlasting your opponents and blocking blaster fire, but given that it’s your first time holding a lightsaber, basic’s better.”

“Soresu?” Fox asks, still a little wary, but Knol can feel the attention he’s giving the motion as he repeats the moves. Knol lets him, then nudges him sideways, drawing the lightsaber hilt through the air in one of the classic dodges.

“Form III, the Resilience Form,” Nico says, and he’s watching too, arms folded into his sleeves as he leans back against the wall. “One of seven classic combat forms recognized by the Jedi Council. Obi-Wan Kenobi is the current master of it among the Order, if I'm not mistaken. Knol tends to favor Form I, Shii-Cho. Far more likelihood of widespread chaos that way.”

Knol scoffs, bringing Fox’s arms up into another stance. He steps right through it, brings the lightsaber down in perfect follow-through of the move, and she raises an impressed brow. “You and your Shien can't talk, Nico. There you go, Fox, first set of blocks in Soresu. See how we do it?”

Fox pauses, looking down at the lightsaber for a moment, then grimaces and opens his hand, offering it back to Knol. “It’s too light,” he says. “I feel like I'm play-fighting.”

Knol laughs, but takes it. “It’s only play-fighting until there’s almost a meter of plasma on the other end,” she says, and smirks at him. “So? Am I going to have to bully Nico into playing arm candy yet again, or will you help me?”

Fox’s gaze flickers from her to Nico, and he says with a trace of disbelief, “ _Again_?”

Nico grimaces. “Knol may be far from the stereotype of a Bothan, but she has a flair for undercover work. I am a frequent victim.”

“Shut your mouth, Diath,” Knol retorts. “Half the time they're your missions anyway.”

Fox snorts, folding his arms over his chest. “If you haven’t noticed,” he says pointedly, “I'm a clone. No one’s going to believe you're anything but a Republic loyalist if you walk into a room with a clone on your arm.”

It’s a fair point, and Knol hums, considering it. “The Temple has plenty of disguises that would fit you,” she says thoughtfully, and slants a glance at Nico. “Is Tae already gone?”

Nico inclines his head. “He left shortly after I met with him,” he says. “However, I believe Zule is still in residence, getting maintenance done on her arm.”

Knol laughs. “My favorite angry little Zeltron,” she says. “She’ll help us if we ask. What do you think, Fox? Zygerrian armor? Mandalorian? A face wrap like a Tusken?”

“Won't it defeat the purpose of being arm candy if I'm in full-body armor?” Fox asks bladly, but Knol can feel his amusement, and it makes her grin.

“Some girls like that,” she points out cheerfully, and when Fox rolls his eyes at her, she laughs. “Well?”

“Mandalorian,” Fox says, grimacing. “This had better work. You think Lok Durd will even be there?”

“My contacts say he’s got a room near the top,” Knol says, and wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Smelly old swamp gas rises, and all that. Fay sent me the plans and the proof that they were being manufactured by the Seps, and that should be enough to get Durd locked up again. At least for a while.”

Nico is already on the comm, waiting for the connection to go through, and he snorts. “Your assistance will be invaluable in arresting him, Commander Fox. Otherwise we intended to tie him up, staple proof of his crimes to his forehead, and leave him in the middle of the Senate.”

“Of course you did,” Fox mutters, pained, and Knol makes a sympathetic sound, reaching up to pat him on the top of the head. Reaching _way_ up, because he’s a tall bastard, at least compared to a Bothan.

“Just think of it this way,” she says. “When you're here, at least someone is keeping an eye on us.”

“I had a _mission_ ,” Fox says, annoyed, but Knol can see the way his eyes stray to the pile of vibroblades she left on the table when she started trying to get her undercover kit together. “Weapons are allowed?”

Knol scoffs. “No one’s going to tell a Mandalorian to ditch their weapons,” she says. “Leave four for me and you can have the rest.”

That seems to go a long way towards placating Fox, and he inclines his head, something in the line of his shoulders relaxing. “We have until evening?”

Tipping her head, Knol makes a distracted sound of acknowledgement. “I figure we let him get all nice and settled in his bed, then slam in and take him by surprise,” she says. “Diath, while you’ve got Zule, tell her to throw in something dark and slinky in my size. Preferably something that’ll hide a lightsaber.”

Nico rolls his eyes, but Knol can hear Zule’s laughter, soft and staticky over the comm. “Very well,” he says. “Anything else, while I'm waiting on you hand and foot?”

“Yeah,” Knol says with a grin that shows too many teeth to be entirely peaceable. “Toss me your lightsaber. I want to run Fox through a few more forms while we wait, and yours will fit him better than mine.”

Nico sighs through his nose, but unclips his weapon and floats it across the room. “ _Only_ on training settings, Ven’nari. And you're going to retrieve the armor when Zule has it.”

Knol rolls her eyes, snagging the hilt out of the air. “You're just sulking because it’s not Tae,” she tells him, but offers the lightsaber to Fox with a smirk. “Up to some more play-fighting, handsome?”

Fox flushes faintly, but he takes the lightsaber willingly. “Training setting?” he asks.

“Lower frequency,” Knol says, leaning over him to fiddle with the mechanism. “So it stings instead of chopping off limbs. Even Jedi generally aren’t reckless enough to train with full plasma blades.”

Fox’s doubtful noise makes Knol snicker, but he hits the button, then sucks in a startled breath as the blue blade ignites. With a smile, Knol pulls back, igniting her own, and—she should probably change before they do this, but it’s not like it matters much when Zule is sending over a whole different outfit. And besides, it’s easier to fluster people when she’s all dressed up. “All right, let’s see what you remember of what I just showed you. Think you can beat me, Commander?”

“No,” Fox says, but there's a light in his eyes that says he’s sure as hell going to try anyway, and it makes Knol laugh.

“There we go, that’s what I like to hear,” she says, and tosses her mane back, fur rippling with anticipation. “Just try to keep up.”

Nico's sigh is very loud and very disappointed from the other side of the room, but Knol can read him. He’s just jealous that she’s the one having fun while he deals with the fussy arrangements.

“You _what_?” Kix asks, dismayed.

“Stowed away on Sing’s ship,” Hardcase says cheerfully, apparently unaware of the fact that Kix is about to drag him out of his seat and check him over yet again, just to make certain he’s not bleeding out somewhere. “I got back just in time to see her loading all of you, but the comms wouldn’t work and the ship had a jammer running, so I figured I’d sneak aboard and free you. She kept a guard on you the whole time, though, and I didn’t get the chance until Master Fay found me.”

Rex rubs his forehead, keeping his eyes closed, and—it’s logical. It _is_. It’s honestly close to ARC trooper thinking, deciding in the space of a few seconds the best course of action and then taking it, and that’s something to consider later. But at the same time, Hardcase only _just_ got his paint. He’s four weeks out from being a shiny without a single battle under his belt, and the thought of him sneaking aboard Aurra Sing’s ship is _horrifying_.

In the copilot’s seat, legs crossed beneath her and hands folded in a complicated pattern in her lap, Fay makes a low sound of amusement. “I feel as though you would have found a way regardless of my presence,” she says, and Hardcase grins at her, a light in his face that Rex has seen other troopers turn on General Ti.

“Thanks, Master Fay,” he says, and then, “Looks like everything is working right, and the hyperdrive’s ready. Where to?”

Rex opens his mouth to say back to Torrent, back to the 501st, and then pauses. He casts a glance over at Jon, who’s sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall, head tipped back, the grey prisoner uniform that Jesse managed to find for him giving Rex far too many thoughts about all the times he saw Jon like that before, fresh off of torture. There are deep lines in Jon's face, and his skin is a shade it definitely shouldn’t be, but like he can sense Rex's glance, he opens his eyes.

“Fay?” he asks quietly.

“Coruscant,” she says, decisive, though she doesn’t move. “Knol and Nico should be there already, and I believe we need speak. All four of us together.”

Rex opens his mouth to ask if he can comm Anakin, then stops short. His mouth snaps closed as the two names register, and he jerks around to stare at Jon in disbelief.

“Nico _Diath_?” he asks, incredulous. “And—that means—Knol _Ven’nari_ ­—”

And, of course, there was one other, too. The most powerful Jedi in existence, a woman who never carried a lightsaber. Slowly, Rex turns to look at Fay, who opens her eyes to look back at him with an amused smile. Able to sense his thoughts, probably. Of course.

Across the ship, Fives is wide-eyed, frozen. He looks a little like he just got hit over the head, and Rex can't entirely blame him.

“I see you’ve heard of us,” Fay says, raising a brow at Jon, who grimaces and closes his eyes again.

“Has Knol found Lok Durd yet?” he asks, and it’s blatantly a change of subject, but Fay allows it with a quiet snort.

“I've heard nothing so far, but there's no reason to question them. Only how much trouble they’ll find along the way.”

Jon raises a brow, entirely pointed, and Fay ignores it. After several moments of silent standoff, Jon breathes out, and says, “Are you going to say who it is?”

Next to Fives, Jesse and Echo look up as well, and Kix's eyes close. Hardcase glances over, then determinedly looks back at the controls as he starts up the hyperdrive, and Fay watches his hands move for a moment before she says, “Jon. Later.”

“No,” Jon says, equally quiet. “I trust them. Even with this.”

Rex sinks down next to Jon, close enough that their thighs press together. The first touch makes Jon flinch like he hasn’t in days, but even so he carefully, deliberately slides his hand over Rex's, grips tightly. Swallowing, Rex squeezes back, and—it’s a hell of a mission, but it’s also one that he would never turn down. There's a Sith Lord serving in the Senate, and once they're gone, the war might not _end_ , but it will tip in the Republic’s favor. They might be able to convince the Republic to negotiate, and their intelligence might stop falling into Separatist hands. Rex can't even begin to count how many clones have been killed by bad intelligence, or leaked troop movements, and even if all they can do is remove that leak, it will change things for the better.

“It’s not a matter of trust,” Fay says, perfectly level. “I trust them as well. But Jon, this is our mission and I won't ask anyone to face it.”

Rex has about ten responses to that, only a handful of them polite, but before he can so much as open his mouth, a throat clears.

“Master Fay,” Kix says, stepping forward, and Fay glances up at him, one slender brow arching. It’s not enough to make Kix falter; he raises his chin and says carefully, “We’re soldiers, Master Fay. Finding the Sith Lord could help end the war. There's no way we would _ever_ say no, even if it’s dangerous.” A hesitation, and then he says, a little wryly, “And…I'm a medic. If something I do can prevent deaths—and this will.”

Fay regards him for a long, long moment, steady and thoughtful. Then, slowly, her gaze slides to Echo, to Jesse, to Fives, and then finally to Rex. “It’s likely that you’ll die,” she says calmly. “We’ll do everything in our power to prevent it, but it’s still a reality that must be faced.”

“That’s fine,” Jesse says, just a little rough, and his gaze is on Kix, like he’s drawing strength from him. “The odds that any of us would survive to the end of the war are pretty slim anyway.”

Rex winces a little, feels Jon's hand tighten around his. He wants to reach out, to wrap his arm around Jon, but the slump of Jon's body makes him wonder if it’s the right thing, if that’s what Jon wants right now.

“The regs,” Echo starts, and Fives groans. With a growl, Echo kicks him hard in the ankle, and says more loudly, “The _regs_ say we’re supposed to follow the Jedi. And I don’t think any of us mind following you to the person behind the war.”

Rubbing at his ankle with a scowl, Fives huffs. “I don’t know how much we can help against a Sith Lord,” he says, “but we’ll _try_.”

“Jango was called the Jedi-Killer,” Rex says, quiet. “No reason we can't make that Sith-Killers now that we’ve got that legacy.”

Fay snorts, but her expression is warm as she watches them. “Hardcase?” she asks.

Hardcase glances back, and he’s grinning. “You already know I'm with you, Master Fay.”

“Yes, well, it seemed appropriate to check,” she says mildly, and rises from her seat. Her boots ring on the metal as she moves to crouch down in front of Jon, and Rex swallows, tries not to feel like he’s intruding as they share a long, speaking look. Jon doesn’t let go of his hand, though, and Rex breathes through the urge to hide until Fay finally says, “You overtaxed yourself.”

“It was necessary.” Jon is still watching her, and there's something on his face that’s warm and familiar, even beneath the exhaustion.

Fay's smile is a little sad. “I suppose it was,” she says, and leans in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “There’s a corner in the engine room with blankets.”

Rex frowns, because there’s a crew bunkroom right beside them with plenty of space, but before he can say anything, Jon lets out a breath that rasps with relief and inclines his head. Hesitates, just for a moment, and then offers Fay his lightsaber.

“I know you don’t carry one,” he says, “but…just for a little longer.”

Fay takes it, fingers gentle across the speckled stone. “For tonight,” she allows, and rises. “I’ll give you the name when we reach Coruscant. For now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to meditate on Dooku's memories.”

Jon nods, then frees his hand from Rex's with a last squeeze. When he forces himself to his feet, slow and clearly painful, Rex follows him up. Jon gives him a look that’s something close to wary, but doesn’t say anything, and Rex follows him through the hatch in the floor and down into the diffuse, humming darkness of the engine room.

“Still think it’s someone inconvenient?” he asks, and Jon is a vague shape in the gloom, but still clear enough to shadow across the narrow open walkway around the engine and to the corner furthest from the hatch.

“I think it’s someone powerful,” Jon says quietly, and crouches down, pulling a stack of blankets out of the corner and unfolding them. There's a dragging edge to his voice, all weariness and something grim, and he glances up at Rex, eyes unnervingly colorless in the low light. “Nico and Knol are some of the best. If Fay thinks that someone’s attention might be on us, it makes sense that she would wait until there are more minds to shield us.”

It makes about as much sense as Jedi ever do, so Rex accepts it with a sigh that makes Jon smile faintly. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Rex watches him fold another blanket into a makeshift pillow and then asks, “Is this going to be a bed for one?”

Jon's hands fumble, and he catches his breath. Leans forward, ducking his head, and stays like that for an almost unnerving beat, hunched over in the darkness. “I'm—it should be,” he says, and Rex keeps his eyes on Jon's face, on the twist of too many unhappy emotions. “I need—I need sleep, but I'm going to have nightmares. And I'm not safe.”

Going to have them, like it’s a sure thing. Like there’s no other option, and Jon knows this from experience. Rex hesitates for a moment, trying to figure out how to frame what he wants to say, and then asks, “Would it help having someone on watch?” Because nightmares about enemies appearing aren’t exactly new to him, and he knows what helps him, when Cody is nearby.

Jon closes his eyes, and the lines in his face are deep, the scars thrown into sharp definition in the low light. “No,” he says softly. “It wouldn’t.”

Rex breathes in, out. “Would holding you make them worse?” he asks.

Jon blinks, glancing up at Rex like the question caught him off guard. “I don’t know,” he finally says. “I've never…”

Never tried it, likely. Rex nods, accepting that, and says, “I’d like to try. If you’re dangerous, I’ll move away, but—I'm not going to leave.”

“I'm a Jedi,” Jon says, and there's something raw and honest as he looks up at Rex. “Just moving away might not be enough to protect you. Dooku was Dark, and—his lack of control makes it easier for me to feel the same way.”

“You,” Rex says instantly, vicious, “are _nothing_ like Dooku. I don’t care what he pulled out of his _shebs_ about you being tempted, you _weren’t_.”

He knows that the same way he knows which way is up. Dooku was an enemy. Dooku was _wrong_. Jon is stronger than that, kinder than that. He hesitated, wouldn’t kill Dooku when the bastard was defeated despite everything that Dooku did to them. Even when Rex was wary, cool to him, he helped without hesitation or reserve. He’s _gentle_. Rex refuses to think that Jon could hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it.

Jon's expression twists, but before he can say anything, Rex slides to his knees in front of him, reaches out to brush his knuckles over Jon's cheek. Jon leans into it, and Rex kisses him, trying to put all of his faith and relief into the touch.

“Jon,” he says, and then stops, too many words crowding in his throat. Just kisses him again, and again, and Jon makes a low, desperate sound and wraps his arms around Rex's shoulders, pulling him down on top of him. Rex tries to make himself a shield, tries to cover Jon even as he kisses him, tries to block out the world around them, and Jon wraps his arms around him, doesn’t quite clutch, but Rex can feel that he wants to. _Aches_ , because Jon saved them, killed Dooku, got them free, and he’s been hurt so much in the last week but he’s still so _careful_.

“I've got you,” Rex promises, resting their foreheads together. “No matter what.”

Jon's breath shudders out of him, and his fingers twist into Rex's shirt. He doesn’t answer, but—

He doesn’t have to.


End file.
